Thicker Than Water
by CrimsonEnigma
Summary: Connor and Haytham must race against time to destroy a powerful Piece of Eden before the Templars use it to change the course of history. Post ACIII, in which Haytham survived. Haytham/Connor - Rated M for graphic violence, sex, and incest
1. Prologue

_**Crimmy Comment:** The majority of this fic will take place after ACIII, but the beginning few chapters will be riddled with flashbacks. Positively riddled._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**January 7, 1778**

He never meant to have children.

Or at least, he never had any perception of maintaining a stable family. Haytham Kenway could be brilliant, yet it was difficult to conjure images of himself as a loving, respectable father and husband. If he had planned more efficiently, would Ziio have remained by his side, her smoky gaze meeting his own with undoubting affection? Would their son have idolized Haytham as Haytham had idolized his own father? Haytham couldn't answer those questions, and as fate would have it, he would never be able to answer. The time for a family had passed. Ziio had passed.

All that remained was a tenuous blood relation to his estranged son, Connor, the half-native boy who demolished many Templar plans under the self-righteous creed of the Assassins.

If the Fates of mythology were ever true, then Haytham would bet his blade that they'd be laughing.

Ever since he saw the boy with his own eyes at Bridewell Prison, Haytham knew that it was his son. The resemblances were uncanny and too coincidental to completely ignore. Yet the Grandmaster didn't have the reaction he had expected. Upon first learning details about the Assassin, Haytham assumed that it was his son. For two years, he had imagined what he would feel upon first meeting the child—his child. He thought that he might feel paternal and nurturing but at Bridewell Prison, as he briefly locked eyes with the native boy he felt…nothing. Perhaps, the time for paternal affections was long past. Perhaps there had never been a chance for it in the first place. All that remained was a dull fury and a short, sharp pang of envy.

Could Haytham ever regret the nights he spent alongside Ziio? That stolen month was precious to him, even now as his son swore his ruination and death. Haytham supposed that there was no longer any time for regret. Besides, he already had a lifetime's worth weighing him down, so what was one more added to the camel's back? He would persevere. He would keep trudging ahead, refusing to show his weariness. The Templars would maintain control of the Colonies under Haytham's management.

But this half-breed, this _boy_ would see it all fall to shambles.

So Haytham watched him. Even though the Templar Grandmaster had plans to plot and seeds to sow, he always watched Connor from the corner of his mind. It wasn't for another year and a half until the two finally spoke.

Haytham _could_ admit that there were better circumstances.

He _could_, but he wouldn't.

"Any last words?" the Templar mocked, blade poised to strike.

"Wait!" Connor struggled beneath his father's bulk.

"Poor choice," Haytham responded with a flick of his blade. But Connor narrowly knocked the blade away with a bracer and wormed from beneath the larger man.

The two men exchanged brief, mocking conversation, but Haytham's mind was elsewhere. So he finally met his son, without peering through bars or lurking in shadows, and he did…what? He made a halfhearted attempt to kill him. Haytham had pinned him down with a blade to the face like a beast holds its prey—no, worse-like some sort of monster. For a moment, even the Grandmaster was disgusted with his barbarism.

Yet there would be no apology. No such thing was needed between killers. Instead, Haytham proposed that they work together to find that loudmouth traitor, Benjamin Church.

"I may be able to track him," although Connor's words were humble, his chest puffed at the chance to demonstrate his abilities. Haytham waved the Assassin off and let him do as he pleased. Perhaps maybe, just maybe, there could be a partnership between them. And even if things didn't work out, at least Haytham would still be one step closer to finding Church.

Connor led them to an overturned cart and after chasing and interrogating the driver, Haytham tied up the loose ends.

The Assassin blinked a few times, shocked. It wasn't the shock of the warm blood splattered all over his face, nor of the dead body in his hands. Not even the jagged red spot in the driver's head was shocking, nor the emptied skull where the bullet had exited. Not even death shocked Connor anymore.

"…You did not have to kill him." It was the _senselessness_ of the death that left Connor numbly settling the body down and wiping the gray matter from his own face.

Haytham balked at Connor's logic, or lack thereof. "We know where the camp is. He'd served his purpose." The Grandmaster turned on his heel and began to trudge back through the snow. Could that man have lived and not come back to trouble them further? There was no answer to that anymore. Haytham had seen to it that a bullet was the only answer. The Templar grimaced again. Was he so corrupt and black hearted that he could only show his son the error of Assassin ways by killing? The driver had by no means been innocent. Haytham only did what was right and necessary. So why did he feel like a monster while standing beside Connor?

"Father, where are you going? The trail leads north," Connor huffed as he followed my path through the deep snow.

"Do you expect us to walk all the way there in the snow, Boy? Our feet will be frostbitten by the time we reach the camp!" I continued until the snow was shallower.

"We could take to the trees," Connor suggested. Ah, into the trees, just like his mother.

"Not when the branches are this brittle. Besides, why go hopping about the frozen hills when you can instead ride?"

Connor thought about it for a moment and made a slight face. "You have a horse?"

His question was answered as they came upon Haytham's mare, which was tethered to a low branch. The Templar unwrapped the reign and slid into the saddle.

"You don't honestly think that I walked all the way here, do you?" Haytham mocked.

Connor frowned. "Then do not assume that I came through the trees, Father," the native pulled out a small whistle and blew into it before returning his triumphant gaze to Haytham. "I have my own horse. I was reluctant to suggest such a mode of travel if you were not so well prepared."

Connor's steed, a fine dapple gray with bundles of fur on the rump, trotted through the woods. It was careful around the deep snow and found purchase on stable ground. With practiced ease, Connor mounted it and took up the reigns.

Haytham snorted, but was unwilling to waste more time bickering. "Let's go already," he huffed.

They rode in companionable silence—Haytham brooding and Connor pondering—until they came upon the camp. Connor moved to infiltrate and Haytham meant to serve as backup from the brush, but the Templar found himself so lost in thought that he didn't hear the guards patrolling until they were upon him. It was bad enough looking like a cold hearted spinster next to Connor, but it was worse being saved by him. Unable to take the humiliation for any longer, Haytham decided that leaving Connor with the rest of the guards would be fitting enough.

"I figure that you can handle a few measly guards! See you in New York!" he called while running back through the camp to fetch his horse and confiscated weapons. He only just heard Connor's curses flowing after him.

At the time, that course of action had seemed like a perfectly good idea. It wasn't until Haytham had traveled several miles out that he bothered to really go through the parcel bags on his mare. And of course, those bastards had taken a good deal of his traveling supplies—nearly everything but a small bundle of food. Haytham sighed, frustrated. He could keep pushing his mare until they got to a more suitable location, but he didn't want to risk it breaking a leg with a misstep. Then, he'd be out of a horse and in the cold anyways. So he decided to just tough it out for the night and make camp. There was still scant daylight for him to gather firewood and raise a makeshift tent. It wouldn't be anything fancy, but he could do it, even if he only had one blanket. He had been in worse situations than this.

So Haytham went about his merry way, pleased that he at least still had his leather gloves in his pocket. After starting the fire, he dug into the snow and built up a pit around him. The snowpack would make for adequate insulation against the sharp wind that was picking up. Even though his mare would be cold, at least she her winter coat was thick enough to last the night. An icicle horse was still a very dead horse.

And speaking of horses, Haytham heard a sharp whinny on the wind. It wasn't far away, maybe about five or ten minutes maximum. So casually as he could, the Templar readied for any sort of attack. Fortunately all that greeted him was a weary half-native. Haytham chuckled to himself and stood out of the brush again, making of show of sheathing his blade.

"Well, looks like you survived after all," he chuckled.

If looks could kill, then Connor could've assassinated Haytham on the spot without ever drawing a blade.

"I did not appreciate being left behind like that. You could have assisted me," he all but growled as he dismounted his horse and moved to crouch by the fire.

"What are you complaining about? You did well enough on your own, Boy!" Haytham scoffed and went back to finishing his tent. After snapping down some low boughs on nearby evergreen trees, Haytham lined the top of the igloo to keep the wind out. He sealed the entrance with the single blanket. Shivering slightly under his coat, he joined the Assassin by the fire.

"…Don't tell me you intend on staying here for the night," Haytham finally blurted.

Connor shot him an indignant glare. "I intend to stay, whether you give it your blessing or not, Father. The least you could do after ruining our cover and _abandoning me_ is to accept my presence for the night."

"Do you have to make everything sound so melodramatic, Boy?" Haytham sighed with a roll of his eyes. Even though he wanted nothing more than to push Connor away and leave the boy to fend for himself, he remembered the pelts that were still strapped to Connor's horse.

"Fine, you can stay," Haytham resigned, hating the brief flicker of hope on Connor's face. "BUT! Only if you have something to offer our…predicament."

Connor's expression faded back to a stern, unreadable grimace. "I have furs. You have food. We will combine our resources," he said matter-of-factly.

Haytham was about to argue the point, but he stopped himself. Even though it was no feast, he did still have enough food. It wouldn't be horrible for him to share both his shelter and provisions with his son.

"Very well," Haytham agreed and stood to dig into his saddlebag. He procured some dried meat, a loaf of bread, and a block of cheese while Connor stood and dug through the furs. Connor removed the saddle and saddle bags from the horses so that their fur could fully puff out and took the bundle of pelts inside the tent. Haytham spread some feed out for the horses. After that, the two sat by the fire and ate in silence.

They both watched the fire and would occasionally open their mouths as if to say something, but then snap their jaws shut once again without a word uttered. It was awkward to say the least, but what would they have to say to one another? Connor was but a naïve child and Haytham was just a grumpy old man. The only things they had in common were their blood, their blades, and their penchant for killing.

They could speak of morals and their personal beliefs. They could try to persuade the other to see the flipped side of the coin. But both men were too weary and too cold. It took too much strength to argue. So wordlessly, the two headed back into the tent and bundled up under the furs. They frowned as they bumped into each other and grunted while trying not to accidentally impale the other or themselves with their array of weapons. The shelter was small. Haytham had only built it to accommodate himself. He hadn't been expecting another man to join him, particularly one roughly his size. Most of the weapons ended up outside the shelter, but the men each kept their hidden blades firmly strapped to their wrists. Neither was willing to give such purchase to remove it.

Finally, they settled down, back to back. After a long time of listening to the wind howl a low lullaby through the trees above, both men fell asleep.

Haytham woke up first. He expected it to be morning, but with a grimace, he realized that the sun wasn't the reason he awoke. Connor was pressed against him beneath the furs, and apparently, he was having a good dream. Haytham could feel the erection pressing into his backside.

A rude awakening seemed to be in order.

Haytham snarled low in his throat and jammed his elbow into Connor's ribs. Connor, wild eyed and ready for attack, gave a short yell and tried to roll away. The Assassin hit his head hard against the snow pack wall, and then as he tried to flail into a sitting position, his head hit the boughs above. Connor's blade ejected and with a furious, wild roar, he flopped onto Haytham blade-first.

Haytham gripped tightly to Connor's bracer and narrowly diverted the blade. He wrestled with the young man above him. Even though Haytham knew that Connor was simply acting upon instinct, he couldn't help but idly consider killing the boy now. Fortunately, Connor stopped struggling as he came to understand his surroundings.

"F-Father?" he asked, still disoriented.

"Tch, who else?" he irritably growled.

Connor's muscles tensed for another moment, and then slackened as he slid off of the larger body. The hidden blade went safely back to his bracer with a soft click and Haytham heard himself sigh with relief.

Connor rubbed at his head first, then his tender ribs. After a moment of consideration, he spoke. "You hit me in the chest, Father. Why?"

"What, you don't remember your dream? Although I don't know the finer nuances of it, I have an idea about the subject matter," Haytham snorted.

The fire outside had dwindled to ashes long ago. No light shone through the blanket. It was black as coal inside the shelter, but even so, Haytham could practically see the shameful blush spread on Connor's high cheekbones. The Grandmaster smirked to himself. The boy was such a sanctimonious fool.

Connor must have remembered his dream. The Assassin moved again, trying to maneuver towards the exit. He was thrashing like an animal eager to escape a cage. Haytham grunted as he was shoved and kicked in Connor's meager effort to escape. Finally, the boy made it outside and Haytham heard him hiss at the cold wind and then crunch through the snow towards his steed. Haytham waited and listened, expecting Connor to just ride off into the night. That would be fine. Most of the pelts were still in the shelter and Haytham's saddle bags still had the food. Even if the boy did rob him of food or weapons, Haytham knew how to survive. He would be fine.

The Templar allowed himself to fully take up the shelter. It wasn't what exactly roomy, but it was better with only one body in it rather than two. He expected sleep to come quickly, but…it didn't. Part of him was listening to Connor outside, still waiting for the boy to run away. Time passed. Connor still hadn't fled.

"…What in hell are you doing out there, Boy?" Haytham could no longer hold back his curiosity as he called out. At first, there was no response and a part of Haytham felt a short jab of fear. Perhaps Connor had died already, frozen to an icicle. Just as he was about to go have a look, he heard movement again. Connor's footsteps reached the front of the tent, hesitated, and then slowly lifted back the blanket.

The clouds outside were blocking the stars, but not the moon. Haytham could see the lines of distress on Connor's face, even in the gloom.

"…It's cold out here. May I enter?" he asked stiffly.

Haytham blinked. Connor must have felt rather guilty to have this sort of reaction. The elder man rolled his eyes and gave a short chuckle. "Fine, but promise me that you won't rut against my leg in your sleep."

Connor's eyes lowered. A gust of air blew into the shelter, making both of them shiver. "I…cannot guarantee that promise, Father. I cannot control my dreams any more than I can control the wind."

"Nor your loins, apparently."

The Native gave Haytham a simmering glare.

"Then go masturbate outside or something! Take care of it, Boy!" Haytham threw his hands as far up into the air as he could. "Decide quickly. You're letting the wind inside."

Just to spite him, Connor held the blanket back further.

It was Haytham's turn to glare at the Native's satisfied smirk.

"Fine! Get in here before we both catch our death, Boy!" he huffed and rolled to the side of the shelter.

All too eager to warm up, Connor thumped inside the shelter and lay with his back to his father again.

Another few moments passed in silence.

"So…was it at least a pretty lady? One with a full bosom and curvy hips?" Haytham asked, half teasing.

Connor huffed and tried to curl into a ball. "I do not wish to remember," he grumped.

"Oooh, so it was a tough young lad, was it? One with rippling muscles and a firm backsi—" Haytham was cut off as Connor's elbow dug into his ribs. Payback. Though judging from Connor's response, it appeared that Haytham had his answer. Another thick silence fell over them and Connor drew his arms around himself tightly.

Ah. So Haytham had made the guilt worse.

"Well…it's not so bad to fancy…men," Haytham started awkwardly. At least he didn't need to explain the subject of sex to his son.

"Father, I am not in the mood for this conversation."

"Nonsense! I'm just saying that it's okay if you want to bugger a man!"

"Father!"

"There's nothing to be ashamed of! It's only society that speaks of it with disgust!"

"Father, not now!"

"And at least you won't have to worry about offspring!"

"Stop, Father!"

"It's just as well! Humanity is starting to get a little too big for its boots!"

"FATHER!"

Haytham paused for a moment. "…What?" he huffed.

Connor rolled over as if to say something harsh or cold to Haytham. But he stopped himself and resigned to facing his side of the shelter again.

"I just want to sleep," he finally grunted.

Haytham gave a short bark of laugh. "Unlikely! You're probably determined to stay up all night so you don't have another wet dream again!" Haytham knew that he was being cruel by this point, but part of him delighted in making the Assassin uncomfortable.

"Tch, it is not as if you are going to take care of it, so just accept it!" Connor huffed in arrogant retaliation.

Well, there was an ultimatum. And it was one that Connor clearly felt the victor upon. Haytham rolled to face Connor's back and wrinkled up his face at the prospect of jerking off his son. It was deplorable to say the least. He had no sexual inclination towards the younger man and the fact that they were father and son made it worse.

The logical part of his mind was adamantly reminding him of their blood relation. The biological part of his mind was whispering horrible things. Such as the fact that he hadn't lay with anyone in months. Such as the fact that Haytham still couldn't accept Connor as his son, so it _almost_ didn't count as incest. Such as the fact that Connor was going to win this argument unless Haytham did something drastic.

It seemed that Connor seemed to enjoy premature victory as Haytham bared his teeth in the dark. Flexing his fingers under the furs, Haytham hesitated. It wasn't as if they were ever going to forge a father son relationship, even if they did want it. So why bother trying for one? Why not just ruin any inclination of that now? Without warning, he wrapped his arm around Connor's hips and firmly grabbed at the younger man's crotch.

Connor gave an unmanly yelp and tried to wiggle away. "F-FATHER!?" Connor's voice was laced with confusion and a spark of fear. His body was as taut as a bowstring and he could feel a slight tremble beneath the coat.

"What?" Haytham's words were sharp in Connor's ear. "You were the one who suggested that I take this route lest you dry hump my leg all night."

"This isn't—ngh!—This isn't what I meant!" Connor huffed as Haytham's hand, unnaturally skillful, massaged his cock through his breeches.

"No, perhaps not literally. But if you truly want me to stop, all you have to do is say the word," Haytham firmly squeezed through the fabric.

Connor made a small, distressed sound, but he said nothing. The Assassin was at war with himself. Yet it seemed that Connor came to the same conclusion as Haytham had and with a low moan, he ground his hips into the inviting hand with fervor.

Haytham grinned into the back of Connor's neck, but the expression was far from pleasant. It was too forced, and too cold, and too bittersweet; it was akin to an animal bearing his teeth, whether for fear or for dominance, one couldn't know.

They could never go back.

Haytham undid the buttons on Connor's trousers with practiced ease, and breached the hem. Connor gave a shout as Haytham slid his hand along heated flesh and firmly stroked. The cold metal of his blade casing touched Connor's hips, making the Native jump a little and give a small whine. Connor's breaths turned short and harsh under the ministrations. He reached his bladed arm above him and gripped the back of Haytham's skull.

Ah, so the boy wasn't as sentimental as Haytham thought.

Should Connor sense any foul movement to him (or particularly, to his swollen cock), then he would be in the position to eject his hidden blade into Haytham's neck. It was aligned already so that it could sever the Templar's spinal cord with a mere flick of the wrist.

Haytham chuckled. Ah Connor, ever the Assassin.

The shelter seemed to heat up as Connor writhed in Haytham's hand. His bared backside rubbed tantalizingly into Haytham's bulging crotch, making the Templar grit his teeth with restraint. Soft, needy sounds fell from the Native's lips and his hips bucked as he neared release. Finally, Haytham could feel Connor's body tightening against him as the boy's hips lost all sense of rhythm. The Assassin gave a final, animal keen as he came, cum spilling over Haytham's hands. His knuckles were white in the Templar's mussed hair, gripping onto him as if he were holding on for dear life.

A few more pants—a few more strokes—and Connor relaxed bonelessly against Haytham.

The elder man withdrew his sticky hand and wiped it on the pelt. Connor pulled up his trousers and buttoned them as his breath evened out. The Native's head felt full of molasses as he rolled to face his companion.

Haytham turned his back towards Connor, ignoring his own straining need.

"F-Father…what about…Do you need…?" Connor couldn't find the words so he made a pistoning motion with his first.

"It's nothing, Boy. Now go to sleep."

As much as Connor wanted to argue, his eyelids seemed to have gotten heavier with his recent release. He tried to reach out to Haytham, but his hand fell short of his shoulder and instead withdrew. Perhaps they could discuss such a strange turn of events in the morning. It was likely that they wouldn't even bring up the topic…but perhaps...

Haytham willed his erection away by focusing on Connor's breathing. It soon evened out as the Assassin fell asleep. Good. He didn't need the boy to be bothering him anymore. His mind was already thrown into tumult at their actions. Likely, Connor was just as emotionally confused. But it didn't matter. They were too different to get along. They would have never been able to act as father and son. Never. And now, their actions saw to that more than words could. They could never be a real family now.

After all, Haytham never meant to have children.


	2. Chapter 1

**November 16, 1783**

Connor's shoulders shook as dry, harsh gulps of air tore down his throat. His eyes were arid and red, but his hair was mess and his Assassin robes were disheveled.

The manor was too empty, but his head was too full. After all of his hard work, after trying to save everyone, he only proved himself a fool. He was a fool that was only good for letting blood.

His people had moved on under the pressures of the new United States government. Connor had fought for their right to the land by eliminating Templar control in the Frontier, but ultimately, it wasn't the Templars who were to blame. The new country robbed them instead. He had advocated the Colonists' freedom and was rewarded with betrayal. Even though he understood that it wasn't completely his fault, he still couldn't fight the sharp pang of longing and guilt. He had failed.

Had his father been correct after all? Maybe at first…No. Haytham wasn't right to advocate such methods of control. Haytham had not been right.

Another dry sob shook Connor's form. Even now, years later, it still hurt to think of Haytham. There had been times when Connor had wondered what things would've been like if Haytham hadn't died. Would Connor's hands feel cleaner? He could remember the feeling of his blade sinking into Haytham's neck. He could remember vague words passed to him before everything faded to gray and then black. He could barely remember being dragged off of the battlefield by his Assassin recruit. But he never got to truly pay his respects to his father. Although he had gone to the funeral, his main goal had been to antagonize Lee. Little else transpired, but Connor could still feel the cold hatred pouring off of Lee in waves. The memory of those frigid, mourning eyes made him shudder. Haytham was dead by Connor's blade, and there wasn't even a body to show for it. The corpse was likely decimated by oncoming cannon fire. Only his Templar ring remained intact.

Did Connor miss Haytham, or did he miss the chances that he never took? He tried not to regret any of his actions, but that was easier said than done. Everything was gone; Haytham, Achilles, Lee, and his clan were all gone. All that remained was the Brotherhood.

Connor flopped backwards onto the bed. He was pleased with the Brotherhood's growth, but there were times when he doubted his own leadership. Perhaps if his father were still alive, then he could help Connor. Perhaps if things had gone differently, then the Templars would be willing to work alongside the Assassins. Perhaps…

Connor sighed again. Even though he knew such lines of thought were detrimental, he couldn't help himself.

Perhaps if Connor and Haytham had another chance, then maybe they could become…something more. Before the final battle, Connor and Haytham had…something. The Assassin was hesitant to say exactly what that something was, but he knew that it was more than he should feel for his father. It was wrong, but he still craved the warmth of the elder Templar's body against his. It was so wrong… but it began the night that they banded together to find Benjamin Church.

**Five Years Earlier**

**January 8, 1778**

The two men didn't even look at each other as they packed up the camp in silence. The sun was hidden behind a pregnant wall of clouds and the wind was still blowing fiercely. A storm was coming and they needed to move on. Even though they wouldn't outrun the snow by any means, it was obvious that their meager shelter wasn't enough for the impeding onslaught.

There were times when the two almost seemed ready to speak, but again, all words fell to the wind. Haytham knew that there was one large topic that was weighing both of them down, but he certainly didn't want to talk about it. Apparently, neither did Connor. Instead, they focused on following a nearby trail to find adequate shelter to withstand the next few days. It wasn't until midday that they came to a crossroad that was laden with foot prints of people and horses alike.

"There's a camp up ahead," Haytham pointed to the thin wisp of smoke that was driven by the wind.

Connor dismounted his horse and inspected the fading footprints. They were just barely clear enough to decipher. "There were roughly a half dozen men, two of which rode horses. They did not have heavy cargo."

"Then we'll have to be careful. They could be redcoats."

Connor nodded and mounted his horse again. They followed the tracks some way before finally breaking off from the path and investigating closer. The camp was once a small home. It looked to be a one bedroom cabin, now dilapidated with time, and a small 3-sided stall for horses to the side. Six Regulars had made camp. The lopsided door to the shack was wide open as they brought armfuls of firewood indoors before the storm hit. The musky scent of cooking meat wafted out. The horses were contently munching on hay in the nearby stall. All in all, it looked like these men were well prepared.

Haytham and Connor met again, this time without their horses. "We'll kill them all," Haytham whispered to Connor. The Native gave a face, but then nodded. The storm front was coming in and they were running out of time to find shelter, much less make one. And of course, asking a Redcoat if they could join for dinner was out of the question. So the two men took their positions.

In the camp, a guard dog trotted out of the horses' stall and sniffed the air. It barked a few times, and then its ears perked. With its nose flicking to a fro, it delved into the brush where some bait had been left.

"Oi, where's that mutt gone off to?" one of the soldiers asked.

"Probably saw a squirrel or somfink. Good riddance, I say," replied another.

The first soldier huffed and then followed the paw prints in the snow. Not too far away from the camp, he saw the pristine white stained with fresh blood. A mound was in the snow, slightly steaming as the warmth was stolen by the cold, and with its fur blowing in the wind.

"The 'ell!?" the soldier rushed forward to the dog's corpse. He paused when a handful of snow fell from a branch above him and wetly plopped to the ground. The soldier looked up. He didn't have time to scream as the Assassin landed on his shoulders. The soldier's ribcage was crushed as his collarbone snapped and his spine bent the wrong way. As the body hit the ground, Connor drove his hidden blade between the man's ribs and into his heart.

"Ey, now where did Holland get off to?" another soldier called from the camp. "OI! HOLLAND!? Get your arse back here 'afore the storm gets worse!"

Behind that soldier's back, a few more guards were silently dragged into the brush.

"Holland! Ferget yer damn mutt and get over here! I ain't gonna go lookin' for yer sorry tail!"

Another guard exiting the cabin was pulled behind a corner, a blade quieting whatever protest lay in his throat. The soldier tending the fire inside was quickly disposed of with a well-placed blade to the neck.

"Fine! Your funeral, Holland! Don't expect me to be cryin' for ya when we find yer frozen cor…" The Regular turned around to the quiet camp. His comrades were gone. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as he drew out his musket and tried to quietly load a bullet. But he never got the chance. A blade was soon poking out from his chest and he gave a soft, quieted gurgled as a gloved hand covered his mouth.

The horses gave a few whinnies and grunts from the stall and the fire on the hearth made a welcoming crackle. Blood was seeping into the white snow as Haytham and Connor dragged the bodies away from the camp. The two men wiped their hands into the snow and then took stock. There was plenty of food, but not enough firewood to last the storm.

"Well…Connor, go fetch our horses. I'll get the wood," Haytham sighed.

"Or I could get the wood and you fetch the horses. I have the tomahawk," Connor replied, holding up his weapon proudly.

Haytham turned back to the Native incredulously. "Do as I say before the weather gets worse!" He yanked the tomahawk out of Connor's hand.

Connor stubbornly faced Haytham, his shoulders squared in defiance. But with a resigned huff, the Assassin shook his head and went back down the path. Haytham gave a victorious pull to the lapels of his coat and ventured in the opposite direction, Connor's tomahawk still in hand.

It wasn't long before Haytham came across another set of tracks. It looked like there was one soldier still out in the forest and he was dragging around a rudimentary toboggan. Haytham smirked. At least it would make hunting for firewood that much easier.

The Templar followed the tracks and then skirted around them. He spotted the only remaining Regular chopping down some low, dead branches with a hatchet. The soldier was near a ledge that overlooked the sluggish river. It wouldn't be difficult to kill this fellow. He was a sitting duck. But as Haytham crept forward, he realized that he wasn't the only one watching the soldier.

A wolf lunged out of some nearby brush with a ferocious growl. The soldier wheeled around and got his arm up just in time for the wolf to clamp its jaws shut. He dropped the hatchet with a scream and struggled with the wolf. The animal finally let go and the soldier grabbed his musket. He shakily aimed the loaded gun and fired at the oncoming wolf. The redcoat missed, but the loud bang was enough to scare the creature away.

Birds flew from the trees and the musket smoked. The Regular was shaking and breathing heavily, his arm a bloody mess, as he tried to reload his gun. Haytham moved in the brush and the soldier spotted him.

"YOU! You over there! Don't move! Don't you move you cock knocker!" the soldier screamed while still reloading his musket one-handed, his eyes wild and accusatory.

Not a moment later, a tomahawk landed in the soldier's chest with a meaty, hollow sound.

Haytham took his time moving over to the corpse and pulled out the tomahawk. "Tch, idiot," he grumbled under his breath. He needed to quickly get back to the camp. If wolves were attacking humans, then they were probably desperate for food. That wasn't improbable, considering that the colonists were overhunting and winter was unforgiving. But it did mean that the wolves might take the horses in the night. That wasn't something that Haytham could risk.

He grabbed the reins on the makeshift toboggan and almost made it two steps before he heard the throaty animal growl of a wolf. Haytham cursed. He thought that the musket shot would've at least scared them off for a while, but the smell of fresh blood and meat must've been stronger than their own fear.

"Oh, come on," he growled under his breath, tomahawk in one hand and his hidden blade ready in the other. Finally, a wolf came out from the trees and lunged at him. Haytham spun and put the wolf down in one smooth motion. But another came up from behind him. He braced himself for the attack, but instead, he heard a branch crack above him and the wolf yelped in pain. Haytham turned to see Connor triumphantly stabbing the wolf with his hidden blade.

"Well, about time you showed up," Haytham remarked harshly.

Connor grunted in response, clearly not in the mood for banter. He grabbed his tomahawk from Haytham and returned to fighting the wolves. One lunged at the Native while another went for Haytham's legs. Both of the animals were disposed of quickly, but not before another wolf leaped onto Connor's back. It tried to bite Connor's head, but it instead clamped around the top of the bow. The bowstring broke and the weapon snapped into the wolf's snout.

Haytham and Connor backed to the ledge, side by side. There were still two wolves stalking towards them slowly, teeth bared and snow dancing on the fringes of their fur. The animals lunged for the men only to be redirected into the river below.

Haytham clapped his hands together as if to brush off imaginary dust. "Now we don't have to worry about the horses' safety."

Connor nodded and put his tomahawk onto his belt. The sun was setting and night would fall soon. They needed to get back to the camp.

But the men only took a single step from the ledge when they felt the soil beneath their feet begin to give. Upon instinct, they leaped to a low branch above their heads just as the ground gave away.

Dangling over a frigid river, the two men barely dared to breathe.

"Alright…edge over slowly…" Haytham ordered quietly. The branch creaked ominously as the Native shifted his weight towards land. Connor paused. The creaking stopped. Then he moved again. The branch cracked.

Haytham looked up as the branch splintered away from the tree trunk.

"…Bollocks…"

Both men hit the water with a hearty splash. Even though the river wasn't very deep, it was plenty cold. Haytham and Connor trudged for the bank, already shivering, as their breaths came out in sharp, foggy gasps.

"That…c-could have…gone…bet-t-tter," Haytham chattered as he wrung out the tail of his coat.

"If only…you had…all-l-lowed me to…g-get the fire…wood," Connor grumbled between his shaking teeth.

"Nonsense! You….would've probably…been mauled by w-wolves," The Templar spat weakly as he began to climb back up the hill to the toboggan of firewood.

"I would not have f-f-fallen into a river if you had not b-backed to the ledge!" Connor argued.

"Well, we've got th-the firewood! Stop comp-complaining!"

Concentrating more on keeping warm, the two soggy men crested the hill. Connor took up his unstrung bow and Haytham pulled on the toboggan. The two men waded through the accumulating snow, trying to move quickly. The wind was positively rabid and it cut through their wet clothes like blades. It felt like an eternity to trek back to the cabin.

Once there, they immediately disrobed and took up the pelts that were already piled on the floor. Wrapped in warm skins, they hurried back outside to unload the firewood. They didn't bother speaking another word to each other until the wood was out of the elements, the horses were given feed, and they were warming up by the crackling fire in the cabin.

Their shivering soon subsided as they sat, wrapped in large pelts, by the hearth. The hare that had been cooking was mostly burned, but vaguely edible. They divvied it up and ate in silence, more grateful for the warmth than anything else.

The wind howled outside the cabin and a few drafts in the wood whistled in key.

"…Sooooo~ooo…" Haytham started awkwardly.

"No. Whatever you are going to say, keep it to yourself," Connor grumbled.

Haytham frowned and took a swig of a bottle of ale, courtesy of the Regulars. "And why should I do that?"

"Because you do not have nice things to say, Father. And if you do not have nice things to say, then it is just as well that you say nothing at all," Connor took the bottle and downed a drink. He made a face and handed it back to the Templar.

"Not everything I have to say is so awful, Boy! Why, I could've been about to lay down a grand compliment to your feet! But now, your assumptions have stopped me in my tracks!" Haytham waved with flourish.

"Were you going to compliment me?" The Native turned his head, eyes betraying a spark of hope.

"Tch, no," Haytham balked.

Connor gave his father a deadpan stare before sighing and turning back to the flames. "Of course not."

"Don't take it so personally," Haytham rolled his eyes and gave a quick drink of ale. It tasted like cheap rainwater, but it was better than eating snow. "I was going to tell you to keep an eye on the fire." The Templar re-corked the bottle and lay back against the pelt-lined floor.

"If I am responsible for watching the fire, then what are you going to do?" Connor asked.

"I'm going to sleep," Haytham adjusted his bundle of pelts.

Connor glared at his father for a moment. "…I could kill you in your sleep," he threatened.

"You could, but you won't."

"What makes you so certain?"

"Because," Haytham turned his back to his son and rested, "you're a sanctimonious fool."

Connor made a quiet growl in his throat, but he didn't bother bickering further. It was getting them nowhere.

After a bit, Connor rose to feed a few more logs onto the fire and then rested onto the floor as well. Haytham's breaths, though slow and measured, were not the breaths of a sleeping man. Connor could tell. A sour expression crossed the Mohawk's face, only to be replaced by a wicked grin. He didn't like to be touched, particularly by strangers. But he could potentially do the touching. It somehow seemed less invasive and uncomfortable if he knew that he could be in control. Connor scooted closer to Haytham's back and shared his pelts over the other man. His hand snaked beneath Haytham's makeshift blankets and draped over the other man's waist.

Haytham stiffened and snarled, "What the _bloody hell_ do you think you're doing, Boy?"

"Keeping warm," Connor stated calmly, his tone giving away none of the anxiety swirling dangerously in his chest. His wandering hand gave an unsteady paw at Haytham's hip bone.

"Then keep warm AWAY from me," Haytham shrugged off Connor's hand.

The Assassin scooted closer to Haytham, daring to press his chest against the Templar's warm, scarred back. "No. If we trap heat under this many pelts, then I will not have to worry over the fire. And I refuse to tend it all night. There are some…activities…that would allow enough heat to accumulate," the hint was meant to sound sultry, but instead, it only fell shakily from Connor's mouth. His heart was pounding and part of him knew that this was as stupid and reckless as it was dangerous and disgusting.

Haytham gave a short bark of laughter. "Are you saying that you want to have sex to keep warm?! That's ridiculous!"

"No less ridiculous than what you did last night to help me sleep," Connor frowned. It seemed like sound logic to his ale-addled mind.

"Yes, it's entirely ridiculous," Haytham turned around to face Connor, "I refuse to allow you to touch me in such a way."

"And I refuse to be indebted to you!" Connor snarled, dark eyes blazing. "If you did not intend to initiate reciprocating actions, intimate and falsely affectionate as they were, then why bother 'helping' me at all last night? You touched me, now I will touch you!"

"Try again and I'll break your hands!" Haytham gripped Connor's wrists and twisted them painfully. Connor yelped and he head-butted the Templar. The two men wrestled. Though weary from the cold, they had plenty of fire in their pride.

Connor bucked as Haytham pinned him down. Touches of the tender and affectionate variety had always served to make Connor uncomfortable. But he understood violence. It came easy to his body, even if he knew how little it actually aided any cause. Violence didn't make his stomach twist painfully like caresses did. A punch to the face never sent him reeling the way a kiss to the cheek could.

Connor meant to lean up and head-butt Haytham again, but he instead found himself inexorably drawn towards the slope of Haytham's neck. There, Connor's teeth found purchase as he bit into the tense muscle.

Haytham shouted an obscenity and released one of the wrists. He gripped the back of Connor's head and tugged at the thick black hair.

"LET ME TOUCH YOU!" Connor yelled, his free wrist flying up to punch Haytham's face. The blow glanced off of his cheekbone. It wasn't a solid hit, but it would leave a mark.

"NO!" Haytham used his weight to pin down Connor's legs.

"WHY NOT!?" the Assassin's hand pulled at Haytham's head, tugging the string in his hair half out.

"BECAUSE—" Because Connor was his son? Or because Haytham didn't want this-this…tryst to progress any further? "BECAUSE I SAID SO!"

Connor shouted something in his native tongue, fury robbing the English language from his senses. He bucked into Haytham again, this time making their hips crash together almost painfully. Haytham pressed down harder as they fought for purchase.

The pelts began to slide off of their bodies, but Connor's free hand caught the furs and dragged them up onto Haytham's back. Even through the frustration and anger, the Assassin managed to grasp onto the back of Haytham's neck. He dragged the elder man against him with a growl and pressed their bodies together. Heat flushed through both of them as their hips rutted sporadically.

"F-fuck…" Haytham snarled bitterly as he pushed himself into the Native. He nipped absently at Connor's neck, worrying the tender, sweating flesh as his pelvis found a rhythm. Their cocks swelled without permission and leaked with rude desire.

Connor moaned something in Mohawk as he ground against the Templar in time. His blunt nails dug into Haytham's pale neck.

"F-Fath—"

"Silence!" Haytham snarled, cutting off Connor's words with a harsh squeeze to his wrist. Connor glared up at the elder man, but he didn't manage to form the words of protest. Haytham gave a particularly satisfying grind of his hips, making their cocks slide together with delicious friction. Connor shouted and squeezed his eyes shut at the fiery sensations rocking his body.

The Assassin groaned and finally let go of Haytham's neck. He slid his hands between their bodies and squeezed their cocks together. Even Haytham gave a sharp gasp of pleasure that was followed by something of a warning growl. Connor ignored such a weak protest and stroked their dicks in time. They were slick with pre-cum and sweat, and Connor's fingers were nimble and firm.

As Haytham's hips thrust into the welcoming hand harder and faster, Connor met the pace instinctively. Their bellies felt full of fire and their balls were tightening with each stroke. Connor was the first to feel himself fall over the edge as his hand lost rhythm. His vision filled with white snow as he came with a low groan. Sticky warmth coated his fingers as he kept jerking his hips against Haytham's, hand still firmly grasped around the base of their cocks.

Haytham followed a few thrusts after, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from calling out. He jerked a few more times, shuddered as the mess ejaculated between their bellies, and then stilled. Their breaths came in heavy, short gasps as if they had been running for miles. Sweat slicked their skin and a more viscous fluid coated their stomachs.

Haytham finally released Connor's wrist. It was red and purple and slightly swollen, but Connor didn't seem to mind. The Templar rolled to the side as he reined in his breath.

Connor's chest heaved as he looked at his messy hand. He glanced around for where to wipe the cum, but decided to simply rub it onto a nearby pelt. He couldn't sell these skins in good conscience anyway.

The two men turned away from each other again without a word passed between them.

At least now they were warm.

**November 16, 1783 Again**

Connor sighed again. He had lost himself in memories that were long past from a time now dead. It was comforting in a way, to remember the warmth that he and his Father had shared. But part of him was undoubtedly disturbed by his actions. At the time, it had seemed like a perfectly normal way to break whatever father-son relationship they could have had without drawing blades. Yet in retrospect, it seemed so foolish. Now Connor wished that he did have a father and there was no one. Achilles had been dead for several years and Haytham had died by his blade. Connor knew that he didn't need a father to define who he was but…in times like these…the comfort would be nice. But Haytham, even if he was alive, could never fill that role. Connor knew that much.

A loud thumping on the manor door forced Connor out of his stupor. He jerked in surprise, like a boy caught with his trousers down. Shame clutched his heart.

"Connor?" Said a voice from outside. The Assassin calmed and chuckled at his actions. It was just one of his recruits at the door. Connor stood from the bed and smoothed back his hair. He was being ridiculous. This was his home and he had done nothing wrong; all he did was remember too much about someone best forgotten.

"Good afternoon, Stephane. What is the problem?" Connor asked as he swung open the door. He was grateful for the distraction.

"Ah, good! I almost thought zat you weren't home!" Stephane chuckled. He let his last laugh die and became deadly sober, "But aside from good tidings, I'm afraid zat I've got some news for you. I'd send a messenger, but this sort of thing isn't something we can afford to be intercepted."

"Then please, come inside," Connor offered, swinging the door open for his Assassin brother. Stephane Chapheau nodded and entered the manor.

Once the door was closed, the French cook began. "I've heard news zat Spain and the United States are fighting over land down in Florida. Anyway, ze Brits supposedly handed zat land over to the colonists when zat Treaty was signed. However, apparently, ze British also 'gave' zat land back to Spain at the same time."

"Was no proper border established in the treaties?" Connor asked.

Stephane shook his head solemnly. "Not from what I've heard down the grapevine."

Connor sighed and shrugged. He suddenly felt very weary. "Then this is a matter best left between the two countries. Let them sort it out amongst themselves."

"Qui, I figured zat, too. But zat's not the problem. I think zat the Templars might have their hand in the honey pot on zis."

That got Connor's attention. "Go on," he urged.

"Well, I've heard rumors from our Brothers in Georgia that the Templars are actually _fueling_ the battles between the Spaniards and the Colonists."

"The Templars must be waiting for the two countries to wear themselves down…" Connor rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Qui, so zat they can take the land from the colonists," Stephane nodded grimly.

"They possibly intend to sell the land to the highest bidder after that…likely to fund themselves since we have dismantled much of Templar trade along this coast."

"Exactly why I need clearance to take care of the matter before it falls out of our hands," Stephane said.

Connor set his hand on his Assassin's shoulder. "We will take care of this matter together, my friend." He felt a rare smirk pull on the corner of his lip. "After all, it would do me good to get out of this manor."


	3. Chapter 2

_**Crimmy Comments:** In this chapter, please pardon my French. Literally. I don't speak a word of it, so I used my good friend, Google, to help me out. If it's horrifyingly wrong, then please feel free to correct me._

* * *

**Twelve Days Later**

"Full sail, men! Keep steady!" Connor called to his crew. The Aquila sailed smoothly and cleanly across the ocean water, cutting apart the waves with a balanced ease. The breeze was crisp and cool as they sailed for Georgia and the setting sun sparkled on the water like fire. Stephane clung to the rail of the ship, his face a pale shade of green.

"Ugh…Merde…I still don't know how you do zis, Connor…" he gave a watery belch and clutched the railing for dear life.

"You will eventually become accustomed to the movements," Connor chuckled.

"Z'ass what you said a week ago…"

Connor politely ignored the next round of dry heaving from Stephane. If he had known that the cook didn't do so well on the seas, then Connor would have never suggested that they take the Aquila down the coast. Even though riding horses would have taken twice as long, part of Connor thought that it might have been worth the time. Stephane just wasn't built for sea life.

"H'ow much longer…?" Stephane moaned.

Connor gave his friend a guilty glance. "Another day, possibly two depending on how well the wind treats us," he offered apologetically. Stephane groaned, burped, and whimpered.

"OI! What'd I tell ya about clingin' to the side of her deck out here!?" Robert Faulkner bellowed. He stomped up to Stephane and thumped him on the back a few times. "Yea'h can't be kneeling down, gawpin' at your own cock all day! You've gotta stare out on the horizon! Give the water the appreciation she deserves!"

Stephane weakly looked over the edge of the railing, only to dry heave once more.

"Aye, you'll only be giving us bad luck, wit' the way you're belchin' at the beautiful sea like that! Off yer go!" He nudged the Assassin into a sitting position and helped hoist him upright.

Connor chuckled and glanced over. "Mr. Faulkner, if you would take the helm, then I will help Stephane to the berth deck."

Faulkner shrugged and handed off the nauseous Frenchman to Connor. "Aye, Captain. Wouldn't be a bad thing for you to get a spot of rest yerself."

Connor nodded his thanks to Faulkner and led Stephane to the quarters below deck. He gave him a ginger root to chew and a bucket by his hammock just in case.

"Merde, merde, 'jus knock me out, Connor! 'Ave a spot of mercy," Stephane complained.

"You'll be fine, my friend. Just rest, and sleep if you can," Connor sat on a stool nearby and waited for his Assassin to rest.

Now that it was settling into early evening, most of the crewmates were either eating their nightly rations, drinking, playing Morris, or all of the above. It was a congenial, rowdy crowd, and Connor was content to sit back and watch. He could trust these men with his life while on sea. Faulkner had recruited the best for the Aquila, and Connor fully trusted the old First Mate's judgment. Of course, that didn't mean that there couldn't be a rough stone in the bag of pebbles.

"Another sod who can't take to the seas like one of us?" one of the crewmates dragged a stool across the floor to sit opposite Connor. He had far too many boil scars on his face and far too few teeth. Connor frowned as he remembered the fellow from the last negative encounter.

"And 'ere I thought that we'd know better than to be trailin' around with bad passengers. I can't help bu't worry 'bout what'll happen this time, Captain. Will this one be takin' the helm and rammin' us into an enemy vessel, too?"

"Hold your tongue," Connor's voice was soft though his golden eyes burned at the old crew member. The old man raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Aye, was'a just voicin' my concerns, Cap'n."

Connor knew that was a lie. The old man was waving bait in front of his face and hoping that the captain would jump at it. But Connor simply remained on his stool, his elbows resting calmly on his knees, as his stern expression seared the old man. A few of the other crew mates turned from their games and drinks to watch the tension unfold. But without further trouble, the old man rose, mumbled something about another drink, and then left to join the games.

Connor watched him go and with another mere breath, the noise in the deck was just as ample as before.

"Ah, z'ank you for standing up for me, Connor," Stephane muttered weakly from his hammock. He was clutching the bucket to his chest and looked only minutely better than before.

"It was nothing, Stephane," Connor smiled.

"What did he mean, 'bad passengers'?" Stephane asked.

The smile fell from Connor's lips and he stared to his hands.

"Was it…him?" Stephane motioned weakly with his bucket.

Connor nodded and sighed. "The only other outside passenger I've brought aboard this ship was my fath-…Haytham."

"Ah. I bet that really didn't bode well with your crew."

"No. No it did not. But that was a long time ago, Stephane. I know that the only friction between you and this ship is the seasickness," Connor offered a weak smile.

"Thank you for having me aboard, Captain!" Stephane did a mock salute, eager to raise morale.

Connor felt the side of his lip twitch in amusement. "Thank you for including me on this journey. I needed to…get away from the Homestead for a while."

Stephane nodded knowingly and the two friends fell into companionable silence. It wasn't until the French cook finally nodded off that Connor left for his own quarters.

Once in his private room, he locked the door and methodically undressed for the evening. Faulkner was best for the night watch. Even though he was old, his eyes could read the sea at night like a children's book. Connor trusted the ship entirely to Faulkner.

The Native sighed and rested on his bed. It wasn't as soft as the one in the manor, but it was better than a hammock. But unlike some of his crewmates, sleep did not come easily. He tossed and turned, mind wandering to places best left alone. Even though he had spent many journeys on his ship since then, he still could remember Haytham traveling with him. It had been…stressful. But at the same time, it had been a rather…interesting trip. Haytham hadn't gotten along with anyone on the ship and naturally, the Assassins on board didn't trust the Templar Grandmaster any further than they could throw him. Connor chuckled at the antics, retrospect painting the portrait in humorous tones. But the smile fell from his lips hesitantly.

Haytham was dead now.

A powerful surge of longing and want thundered through Connor and he clung tightly to the sheets on the bed, his chest suddenly hurting too much to move. His knuckles whitened and his breathing was choked with emotion.

Haytham was dead.

Connor's grip loosened and he tossed and turned some more. His hand brushed against a strip of soft leather and he huffed a little. It was a hair tie, likely just fallen from his ponytail. Connor held it up to the meager light and frowned. Then, a dawning realization crashed over his face and he dropped the leather as if he had been burned.

It was softened with use, but still strong. The red leather dye was faded and cracked, and the edges of material were drying from being stuffed between bed sheets for years.

Connor felt his own ponytail. It still had its tie.

Then this one…there was a good chance that…no. That was silly, and even if it was true, it didn't matter anymore.

Connor tossed the hair tie to the bed stand. He could think about it more in the morning. It wasn't as if anyone were relying on an old, faded strip of leather.

After all, Haytham was dead.

* * *

_"Dammit, boy, what'd you do with my hair tie?"_

_Connor raised an eyebrow as he slipped his shirt over his head. "I was not aware that I was responsible for misplacing it."_

"_Yes, you were. You were the one who pulled it out of my hair, thus you are responsible for it," Haytham growled as he dug through the sheets. He huffed and stood back, the bed in disarray and most of his clothing on the floor._

"_If it bothers you so much, Father, then use one of mine," Connor all but rolled his eyes as he pulled a thin lace from a pouch on his belt._

_Haytham looked at the string for a moment before snatching it up to tie his hair. "It will suffice. For now."_

_Connor smiled, just ever so slightly. He was far too sated to be angry and in too much of a hurry to argue._

* * *

A knock at his door sounded oddly like thunder and Connor jerked awake. He blinked blearily around his Captain's cabin and the knock came again.

"Captain! Land ahoy!" the sailor on the other side bellowed merrily.

"Ah, yes. I will be there," Connor called. He stood and slipped his waistcoat and overcoat on. As he was putting on his boots, he couldn't help but glance at the distressed leather hair tie on the night stand.

His dream had rattled him. It made him remember days that he wished he could forget. It made him feel things that he wished he could forget. And all of the unrest came from a simple, silly string of ribbon that had been lost years ago. Connor rubbed his temples and took a great sigh. He was reading too far into things. He was lonely and he hadn't shared his bed with anyone in years. That was all. Though the idea of sex was enticing, it was only an idea. Connor knew that he wouldn't act on it. He had vowed to never get that close to anyone again lest he knew where it could go. He wouldn't take a wife until he knew it was a safe time and place.

Ah, but for an Assassin, such circumstances for happiness may never be fulfilled.

Connor huffed at his traitorous mind and did his best to wipe it out of his head. He had a mission to concentrate on. He had a job to do and people relied on him to make decisions with a clear and focused mind.

Connor grabbed the hair tie from the nightstand and threw it carelessly into a drawer littered with maps and diagrams of the stars.

"Report," Connor strode to the helm and took the offered wheel. Faulkner stepped to the side, his skin sallow with lack of sleep, but his eyes bright and alert.

"Shore! It looks like the port our Brothers secured," Faulkner motioned to a small schooner sailing alongside them in the dawning light. "Our allies are leading us in, making certain that no undue attention is drawn to our ship. They've got the entire coast in this area under their thumbs!" he said merrily. "We should be able to keep the Aquila here for as long as necessary, Captain!"

Connor nodded. "Good."

Docking at the port was simple and efficient. The Georgian Assassins had control over everything that came in and out of the port and they even had a small bay nearby reserved for hiding large ships like the Aquila.

"AH! LAND! REMERCIER NOTRE DIEU! IF YOU WEREN'T SO FILTHY, I COULD KISS YOU!" Stephane fell to his knees as soon as they stepped away from the dock, his hands firmly groping the pavestone. "JE ME'EN FOU! I WILL KISS YOU ANYWAY! JE T'AIME!"

Connor crossed his arms over his chest and nodded at people passing by. His recruit was garnering more than a few odd looks from the crowd as he molested and kissed the ground fervently. The Assassin guiding them stopped beside Connor and discreetly leaned towards him.

"Is he…always like this…?" The Assassin asked.

"It has…been a difficult journey for him," Connor offered.

"Ah…."

"Ta salete sexy me fait bander comme un porc! Allons baiser comme des lapins!"

Connor didn't know what the Frenchman was saying, but a part of him honestly didn't want to know.

"Stephane, we need to move on," Connor urged, toeing the cook's leg with his boot.

"Je veux te lécher des-! Oh!" The recruit wriggled upright, and dusted himself off. "Ah, sorry Connor. I just got…uh, a little carried away." Stephane scratched the back of his head a little and rocked back and forth on his toes.

"I am glad that you are feeling better, my friend," Connor smiled.

They were escorted to a tavern nearby. The Georgian Assassins had prepared a small reunion for Stephane. They greeted him like an old friend and the group caught up briefly on their exploits. Drinks were passed around and the tavern filled with joy and warmth.

"So z'ere I was, waiting for ze signal! Z'en finally, it came! Ze bombardment came thundering down like hammers of god! I barely got z'here in time! It was so close, that a cannon ball nearly tore Connor apart had I not moved him! Qui…I barely got z'here in time," Stephane climbed down off of the table, glancing solemnly at Connor. The merriment faded for a moment.

Connor nodded. "It is true. I blacked out after fighting the…Templar Grandmaster. Stephane saved me and took me to safety."

Another Assassin raised his mug to Stephane and gave a cheer. The others soon followed and Connor found himself relieved that his recruit had such a wonderful bond with these Assassins. The Native had never actually gotten to meet the Georgian chapter of the Brotherhood. He had always sent Stephane in times of need. The Georgians looked up to Stephane as a leader.

After Stephane and Connor were up to speed and well fed, they were given maps and steeds and sent on their way.

"Oi Connor, you feelin' okay?" Stephane slurred, slightly drunk.

Connor nodded. "Yes, I am fine."

"But you didn't driiiiink. And you got something mopey if I dare say," Stephane prodded.

Connor smiled a little despite himself. "I am just thinking. That is all."

"Ah…" for a moment, Connor thought that Stephane would drop the subject. He wasn't so lucky. "Do you regret it? Killing your father?"

Connor flinched slightly. Stephane was a good man. He was a natural leader and he could read his comrades well. Perhaps in this case, a little too well.

"No," Connor finally answered. "I do not regret killing him. The Templars' plans needed to be stopped and he would not concede or cooperate. It was…the only way."

Stephane nodded and finally left it at that.

* * *

Soon enough, the two Assassins crossed into Spaniard territory. They met up with their contact outside of a shop.

"About time you two got here. It's a damn mess!" the contact muttered. The hustle and bustle of the town moved around them as the contact moved one of his pieces on the Morris game board. Connor in turn, moved one of his pieces.

"We were told that Templars are rallying troops."

"Aye, and that's only part of it. Most of East and West Florida are still loyal to the Crown. Word's been getting around about the Colonies being ratified and it's pissin' a lot of folks off. This is a damn powder keg about to blow," the contact moved a few more pieces on the Morris board. It was a good move.

"So the Templars are using Loyalists to attack Georgia," Connor moved again, this time taking one of the black pieces on the board.

The contact nodded firmly. "We've been doin' what we can, but our forces are limited. We've only got a handful of good members here," he said as he moved again. Connor took another black piece. "It's like we're tryin' to do what we can but…but it doesn't seem like enough. More mercenaries and loyalists keep popping out of the woodwork. We kill five, and ten take their place."

Connor took another black piece off the board.

"And while we know that Templars are behind it all, we don't have a definite target. Only a lead," the contact lost another piece.

"And that lead is?"

"A woman. Goes by the title 'Lady Maverick' so I hear. She's new to the area, but she's digging those foul claws of hers in real fast. If you go uptown, you'll prolly catch a gander of her nuzzlin' up to rich fucks. The deeper their pockets, the sharper her claws," Another piece was wiped off the board. The contact began to fly his pieces.

"Then we will hear what she has to say," Connor moved his pieces once more and sat back on his stool.

The contact squinted at the board and crossed his arms. "Aw fuck…lost again."

* * *

Finding the Lady Maverick wasn't difficult. She stood out like a beacon in the fog, luring poor souls onto the rocks. And yet even so, there were times when she would slip out from under Connor's nose. Stephane and Connor spent a day following her, waiting for an opportunity to get their information. But no such opportunity was presented. Firstly, she was accompanied at all times by bodyguards. While killing guards wasn't a problem, her caution was. She never went into a shady alleyway. She didn't step foot into a dead end. She even ate in public venues at all times and met with her 'clients' in rich inns. Connor couldn't find an opportunity to corner her. Eventually, Stephane returned from his post.

"Finally, we've got something," he said, slightly out of breath, as he waved a letter. "I stole it off of some poor sod she was swindling. Apparently, she's got a meeting with 'im tomorrow night at the Gentleman's Pride."

Connor nodded. Good. The Gentleman's Pride was a gentlemen's club, focused on their prominent cigar bar, for only the wealthiest men. It would be public, but subdued. The only real difficulty was getting into the building. It was heavily guarded on all entrances and exits and the windows were locked from the outside. Connor had tried lock picking it earlier while tagging Lady Maverick, but to no avail. They would have to be lucky.

Or rich.

* * *

"Och! I look awful! H'ow do you wear z'ings like z'is, Connor?!" Stephane fidgeted with his cravat. He was wearing a salmon three piece suit, with cream colored stockings and shiny buckled shoes.

"This is for the sake of the mission, Stephane," Connor gently chided. At least the Frenchman cleaned up rather well.

"I swore I would never wear one of these monstrosities…" the Frenchman groaned as he settled the puffy white wig on his head and adjusted it. "Why do you get to wear a hat?"

"I might be able to pass as a Spaniard…but only just maybe. I can hide my face better under a hat," Connor said as he buttoned up his waistcoat.

Stephane muttered a few more expletives as he adjusted the frills of his sleeve over his hidden blade. He looked enviously to his companion.

Connor did look a trifle less ridiculous than Stephane, but the difference was scarce. He wore a dark blue suit with a matching hat and buckled shoes. There were far too many frills on the sleeves and cravat for his liking, but it would do. He glanced in the mirror and made a slight face. He looked ridiculous.

With a sigh, he slid his tricorn hat onto his head and tilted it down to try and shield his face just slightly.

Without further ado, the two left for the Gentleman's Pride.


	4. Chapter 3

The doorman scrutinized Stephane and Connor as if they were moths on a pin board.

"I said that I can't let you in. Tonight's an invite-only affair, and neither of you blokes have invitations. I've never even seen you around here," the doorman crossed his arms over his chest.

Stephane and Connor glanced at each other. They could kill this fellow easily, but there was a chance that it could raise too many alarms. They needed to get inside without bloodshed.

"But my dear Monsieur, I'm just in town, visiting a friend. He recommended this wonderful establishment to me and I couldn't pass up the opportunity before I leave!" Stephane pulled out a pouch of coin from his pocket. "Perhaps…you would like to take a second look at our 'invitation'?"

The doorman eyed the bag of coin hungrily for a moment, before again glaring at the Assassins.

"Then where's your friend you're visiting? All I see is an Injun half breed with you," he wrinkled his nose at Connor.

Connor's nostrils flared. Stephane took a measured breath to keep his own temper in check and stepped up to the doorman.

"Ah, Indian? Oh heavens, no! He's just a Spaniard! And my friend is fraught with a dreadful cold. He simply couldn't spare the energy to accompany us to this bar!"

The doorman looked unimpressed. "No, I know what Spaniards look like and he ain't one. He's an Injun and I can't let him in, no matter who you're friends with."

Connor's patience was nearing its limit. His hands balled into tight fists. "We have the coin to pass, now let us pass."

The doorman sneered at Connor, but didn't bother dignifying him with any sort of response. He spoke again to Stephane. "You better keep your dog on a leash, sir…" he snarled lowly.

Stephane appeared to be at a loss for a moment before giving a dramatic sigh. Only his twitching eyebrow belied his true feelings. "My deepest apologies, Monsieur. This fellow is my…indentured servant. And as such, he's rather defensive of my needs," Stephane again stepped between Connor and the doorman. "I just wanted to see this magnificent bar and since he's been such a good servant on this trip, I wanted to also reward him. You understand, yes? I'm sincerely sorry for the plight we're bringing upon you, kind Monsieur, but perhaps this coin will alleviate your troubles."

The doorman finally took the bag of money, glancing from Stephane to Connor again. "Fine. You can go in. But the Injun stays outside," he conceded.

The two Assassins exchanged glances again, and Connor took a step back to glare at the doorman.

"Ah yes, thank you, Monsieur. I will tell my friend how wonderfully hospitable you have been to us this evening," Stephane shot an apologetic glance to Connor, "Return to the carriage lest you aggravate this fine Monsieur further." Connor nodded, mocking shame, as Stephane slipped inside the building.

The doorman muttered a few obscenities at Connor as the Assassin sulked away.

If blatant racism was an anomaly for Connor, then perhaps he would feel properly offended by the doorman's awful words. Instead, the Assassin was merely ruffled by how long it took to get one of them inside. They had hoped to be indiscreet, but they had inadvertently brought too much attention to themselves already. If only Stephane could make it in, then that would be fine. He would provide a window of opportunity for Connor to join him. In fact…

Connor was crouched on a nearby rooftop. He watched as a window of the Gentleman's Pride opened up from the inside. A fellow with a garrulous pink suit and a fluffy powder wig left the shutters open for a spot of fresh air. The fellow seemed to wink up at the sky, and left the room.

Connor grinned.

Stephane was a good man.

A moment later, Connor was hoisting himself into the room via the open window. The room only had a bed and a small table with a wash basin, but the carpets and walls were furnished in sickly peaches and creams, and it reeked of cigars. Connor didn't know who in their right mind would find this classy, but some things about white men never did make sense to him. He could let sleeping dogs lie.

"I found ze room our Maverick is, ahem, visiting," Stephane frowned in the mirror, adjusting his wig slightly. "And judging from ze sounds I heard while passing, I z'ink that I have an idea of what kind of woman she is. And trust me; she doesn't sound like a 'Lady' at all."

Connor frowned in confusion for a moment. He glanced at the lone wash basin sitting on a table by the bed. Ah. Now he understood. "What she does with men is not our concern. She is still a Templar."

"True enough. She's got two guards in front of her door. Zey're big brutes, likely Templars as well," Stephane seemed pleased enough with his wig and turned towards Connor.

"Then we will dispose of them quickly," Connor hovered near the door, ensuring that there were no sounds of movement coming from the hallway. Thankfully, Stephane had chosen a good wing of the building. It was on the second floor, above the ruckus in the billiard rooms and bar. And as Connor opened the door nonchalantly, he realized that this particular hallway was likely meant for accommodating men with a tight grip on a woman and loose trousers on their hips. The moans and screams from a few doors down confirmed this.

Connor ignored the blush creeping up his neck as he followed Stephane. These rooms weren't meant for actually sleeping in. If anyone spotted them, they needed a ruse for wandering around the hallways. The Frenchman began singing loudly and stumbling about like a drunkard. He all but clung to Connor as the Assassin 'helped' him up the stairs to the third floor. Ladies on the landing giggled behind their hands as the two men passed. font _"Sodomists!"_ one of them tittered behind her hand.

"An' zen I told z'em, NO! YOU FUCK OFF!" The cook began spewing something in French that sounded appropriately inebriated. At least Stephane had plenty of drinking practice over the years. He slipped into the role of 'incapacitated alcoholic' very well.

They rounded the corner on the third floor and the two guards outside of the Maverick's door raised their eyebrows. One of them lightly elbowed the other in the ribs with a sardonic grin on his face. Connor felt another blush reach his ears as Stephane began muttering a slurred, out of key song, and put more of his weight on Connor.

But as they passed the room, Stephane stumbled at just the right time. The two Assassins struck the Templar guards with a practiced, silent ease. The guards didn't even know what hit them before their gaping mouths were covered to quiet their bloody gurgles. The two bodies didn't even hit the floor as the Assassins quickly dragged them away, Stephane still singing and muttering under his breath all down the hallway.

The Frenchman temporarily held up both corpses and feigned a stupid giggle. "Why don't z'ee keys ever work!"

Connor quickly picked the lock on the door and swung it wide open.

"AH! I do know ze right holes, don't I!? Eh!? EH!?" Stephane pretended to goad.

Connor took the other Templar from his friend and slipped into the room with them. The two Assassins deposited the bodies on the floor and popped the kinks in their backs.

"Well, do you think that was convincing enough, Connor?" Stephane asked. If anyone had been listening, then all they would've heard was two male…companions drunkenly stumbling down a hallway and entering their room. Further shenanigans were unnecessary this far away from the Lady Maverick's room.

Connor nodded and they silently left the room and crept back down the hallway. Only a few drops of blood on the carpet belied their kills. Connor and Stephane took post outside of the room, right where the guards had stood. Connor listened intently to the couple inside.

"Damn…you are good," a male voice, sated and full, complimented.

"I know. But don't think that I came here just to offer a fuck. I gave you what your dick wanted, now give me what I want," a woman's voice, Scottish accented, clipped but smooth, responded.

"Yes, yes," the man said. There was some shifting, as if he was putting his clothes back on. "It seems that your traitor disrupted the last shipment down by the docks. Most of the delivery was destroyed in the water."

"Give me some better news than that, lest I cut that cock of yours off. It's not _that_ good," she all but hissed.

The man audibly gulped and shifted some more. "We managed to have a small team follow him! We tracked him down to the slums, but that's where we lost him. He probably has allies there."

"Tell me something that I don't know," she commanded.

"Um, he uh, he has the journal!"

A pause.

"…Do go on…" the woman's voice suddenly softened, yet held the promise of danger.

"I heard from one of my men! The traitor has a journal and we've reason to believe that it's _the_ journal!" Desperation laced the man's voice.

"And how do you know this?" she purred silkily.

"While he was running, we shot his horse. Of all the things that he pulled out of the saddlebags before escaping, he pulled out a leather-bound book. It looked like a journal, my men said!"

"And if it is the journal that we need, held by the fool we must kill, _why didn't your men stop him_?"

"It was a mistake, a mistake! My men won't fail me again, I swear it!"

"No. They won't."

Connor and Stephane glanced at each other as the room went silent. There was some more rustling of fabric, but no more conversation. Connor positioned himself across from the door, ready to break it down. He counted down from three on his fingers.

Unfortunately, he didn't get to finish counting.

Thunder echoed in the hallway as bullets splintered the wooden door.

Connor ducked and felt the sharp breeze of a bullet pass by him. Stephane cursed in French as more holes appeared in the wall just to the side of his head. Connor wasted no more time and he barreled into the door. The wood gave away easily on its hinges and the two Assassins darted into the room. The unfortunate man of the night was slumped on a chair, his head lolled back and his throat sliced open like a gaping mouth. The Lady Maverick was on the windowsill, smoking gun stuffed into the bosom of her corset.

"Fools!" she hissed before jumping out of the window. She caught onto a hanging planter and swung around the corner. Even in heels, she made scaling a building look like child's play.

Connor and Stephane gave chase. People would likely be investigating the ruckus soon and they needed to be out of sight. And, they needed information from their Lady Maverick.

As soon as her heels hit the cobblestone pavement, she ran. "MURDER! MURDERRRR!" she screamed shrilly, like a hysterical damsel. Connor cursed and wanted to take to the roofs, but the buildings were too far apart. He landed hard on the road and ran after her. Unfortunately, as he turned a corner, he was faced with a small platoon of city guards.

"THERE HE IS!" the leader roared blade already unsheathed and ready to fight.

"Go on ahead!" he yelled to Stephane as the Assassin caught up. Connor drew his own sword just in time to parry an attack.

Stephane began to run ahead, but the deadly whooshing of arrows caught his attention.

The guards fell to the ground, writhing and screaming as several arrow shafts stuck out of their bodies. Connor chanced a glance upwards.

"KEEP CHASING HER!" one of the men on the roof bellowed to Connor. He didn't need to be told twice.

Connor and Stephane had just barely caught up to the Lady Maverick as she approached a building at the end of an alley. She threw herself against the door, cursed as it wouldn't open, and turned to face her enemies.

"Assassins…" she snarled. Her ample chest heaved for breath and her red hair clung to her sweaty face. A glittering blade, still stained with blood, was clutched in her hand. If she hadn't looked like such a rabid she-wolf, then she would've been pretty.

"There is nowhere to go," Connor said as he stepped forward, hidden blade ready to deploy. "Tell us what we want to know, and we will spare your life."

"Ha! What a laugh! You're slower than you look, Assassin. I'd sooner cut out my own tongue than tell you shit," she snarled.

"No, you wouldn't," a stranger's voice interjected. It was the same as the one who had aided their chase. The young man jumped down from a low rooftop, a meat hook in hand, and stalked beside Connor and Stephane. "You're too vain to do yourself any bodily harm, Gillian. So why don't you talk before we make your face a lot less pretty."

"Filian!" she snarled, eyes bulging.

"In the flesh, dear sister," he switched the hook from one hand to the other and glanced briefly at Connor. "I'll give you a proper introduction later. How about we bag ourselves a Templar, first?"

The Native Assassin gave the blond boy a scrutinizing glare, but left it at that. For now. They needed to leave before another patrol found them. It wouldn't look good for three men to be ganging up on one woman.

"It will be easier for you if you come quietly," Connor approached Gillian. She swung her knife out at him, missed, and Connor knocked it from her hand. He swept up behind her in one fluid motion and wrapped his arm around her throat. She choked and gurgled a little, manicured nails clawing at his sleeve. Connor counted the seconds for her to black out.

Instead, she grabbed something from the pockets of her skirt and threw it to the ground. A brilliant light, brighter than the sun, flooded the Assassin's vision. It was followed briefly, almost instantaneously, by a loud bang that echoed off of the brick walls. Connor yelled as he was blinded and he felt the butt of an empty gun hit his temple. He stumbled sideways and covered his eyes. It burned fiercely and for a brief moment, he feared that he was blind. But after a few seconds of reaching out in front of him and feeling only air, his vision returned. It was spotty at best, as bright, multicolored lights still danced in his eyes. His ears were ringing and he couldn't hear anything, but he could see that Stephane and the strange blond boy were suffering as well. They were rubbing their eyes and ears, and stumbling about as their equilibrium was thrown off by the blast.

The Lady Maverick was gone.

Connor looked about and spotted an open cellar door by his feet.

"Dammit! She's gone into the tunnels!" came Filian's frustrated and muffled voice. It still sounded like the lad was underwater.

Connor cursed and headed underground. He fully expected an ambush, but apparently the woman was more interested in running than fighting. The group followed the tunnels for a few hundred feet before it branched off into three different directions. This time, it was Stephane's turn to curse.

"We'll split up," Connor said, speaking loudly enough that he could hear himself over the ringing in his ears.

"I'll find you blokes later," Filian said.

Connor stared at him for a moment, stern and scrutinizing yet again, but he nodded. If this lad had found them the first time, then he could probably find them again.

With that, the team split up and took separate routes through the underground tunnels.

* * *

Connor and Stepane had no luck finding the Lady Maverick. She had slipped through their fingers like a fish and swam downstream. The two Assassins had headed back to the tavern they were staying at, eager to change out of the damp suits. Somewhere along the way, Stephane had lost his wig and kept rubbing subconsciously at his balding head. Tired and cross, the two Assassins caught a few hours of sleep before venturing out into the city again.

"Merde… I can't believe that we lost her. Ca me fait chier!" Stephane lamented. He was still sour about the Lady Maverick's escape, but at least he was in better spirits now that he wore his regular clothes.

"Perhaps that boy caught her," Connor suggested.

"And what type of lad can we expect him to be, hm? We don't even know if we can trust him!" Stephane sighed.

"We will discover his allegiances soon," Connor nodded to a rooftop. The blond boy was grinning down at them. Connor couldn't help but frown. Only their contact knew what inn they were staying in. For someone to be waiting for them outside meant that the boy either knew their contact, or else he followed them. Connor screwed up his eyes, trying to make out the colored aura around the boy. He was blue. He was an ally.

Filian made a motion to some buildings in the east and he took off towards them.

"Merde, he wants us to follow 'im," Stephane sighed.

"Then we will." And with that, the two Assassins darted into a nearby alleyway, scaled the building, and followed Filian across the roofs and clotheslines. They didn't stop until they reached a tall building in the slums that had three chimneys crowded together on the roof. Filian ducked behind one of them and only had to wait a moment for Connor to join him. From this spot, their meeting would be hidden from view and would be too far away for nosy ears.

Connor nodded to the youth stiffly. In daylight, the boy looked like a lost orphan. His mop of blond hair was dirty and disheveled and his clothes were too big and akin to a beggar's. If not for the lad's voice, he'd be mistaken for a child. If not for the meat hook dangling precariously from his hip, he might look defenseless.

Stephane finally caught up to the group, huffing and puffing as he braced his hands on his knees to catch his breath. "Fils de pute…" he wheezed.

Connor couldn't help but quirk a small smile at his friend. He leaned back against one of the chimneys and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I am Connor. What is your name?" he asked the blond youth.

"The name's Filian McCarthy," the blond said, giving an extravagant bow. "And like yourselves, I'm an Assassin." He pulled out his meat hook and tossed it to Connor. There was an Assassin insignia etched into the handle. "We work in the darkness to serve the light," Filian recited the code.

Connor nodded and threw the hook back to its owner. The young man caught it with ease and looped it back onto his belt.

"And you are…?" the boy asked, nodding towards Stephane.

The Frenchman righted himself and adjusted his apron. "I'm a mite pissed off zat we had to go springing around rooftops is what I am," the cook huffed. "My name's Stephane Chapheau."

"What can you tell us about the Lady Maverick?" Connor asked as soon as the introductions were over.

"Well, I can tell you more than I'd like to know, but I'll start with the basics," Filian's smile fell away to bitterness. "Her name is Gillian McCarthy and, as I'm sure you've already figured, she's a Templar and my sister. Ever since we immigrated to the Colonies, she's been selling her body for a warm bed. And since she's got a swindler's charm, she made good coin off of bribing and spying and sleeping around. It wasn't long before the Templars found her. Or maybe she found them, I don't know. Either way, they offered her a position with them. Now, she still turns the same tricks, but she gets paid a helluva lot more for 'em. She passes messages back and forth between Templars and she's got dozens of politicians wrapped around her little finger. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if the city guards have been turning blind eyes to Templar actions because she bribed someone with her cunt."

"You do not sound fond of your sister," Connor pointed out.

"Aye, I'd rather wipe her godforsaken face out of the world. When I wouldn't join the Templars too, she sold me to slavers for a can of beans," Fillian smiled wryly. "I ran off and joined the Assassins, yanno, enemy of the enemy and all. But that doesn't matter anymore. The Templars are wrong and my sister just happens to be another willing pawn for their greedy games. Once word spread that the Grandmaster Templar of the Colonial rite was dead, Gillian headed south. After all, it's not safe to be a Templar in the Colonies anymore. You guys saw to that."

Connor and Stephane nodded. Fortunately, the Frenchman didn't dare glance over to see the sour twist of Connor's mouth.

"Templars are gathering Loyalists and mercenaries to attack Georgia. Is Gillian McCarthy the one spreading the plans?" Connor asked.

"Likely. Far as I've been able to gather, she passes off the information regarding shipments and meeting locations. While she's as slippery as a sewer rat, the fuckers she talks to aren't as cautious. We've been able to intercept some messages from them, but by the time we can organize anything, we're too late," Filian shook his head, "We haven't got many citizens willing to stand up in this area, and we have even less Assassins. Some folks will be interested in joining our efforts one day, then the next, they'll disappear into the ether with their tails tucked to their tiny, yellow balls. It's hard to get a lick of help, but just when it's lookin' its worst, you two show up." Filian smirked again. "I dunno if I believe in any god, but I'll thank whatever I can that you blokes are here."

"We won't disappoint," Connor nodded. "Do you know of any significant recent dissension in the Templar ranks? We overheard Gillian McCarthy speaking about a traitor. She regarded him as a threat to her cause. I do not know who this man may be, but if we could find him, we may be able to sway him to aid us.

"He appears to be carrying something of great value to the Templars. It may be a journal or a book," Connor added. "Gillian McCarthy seemed to act as if the journal was just as important as the traitor himself, if not more so."

"Aye, I've heard whispers of a traitor hanging around recently, but I dunno who or why. It could be a trap," Filian noted. "But nevertheless, we'll keep our eyes and ears open for him. Hell, I'll send one of my most promising recruits to look into it. He's some British bloke who ran away from the Redcoat army before it disbanded here, so he's pretty good at the whole espionage thing already."

Connor nodded, trusting Filian's judgment.

Movement caught the Assassins' attention and they turned to see another man, dressed in a similar fashion to Filian, sprinting for the rooftop that they were on. At first, Connor thought that it was a Templar, but his second sight proved otherwise. The man glowed a faint blue.

"John, what do you have to report?" Filian asked his comrade.

The fellow took a second to catch his breath and pointed across the city. "We've got a lead on her. She's gonna meet with some poor sod in the eastern marketplace before sun down."

"Good. Then get the others on the roofs. We'll separate her from her guards and chase her into the slums. We need her alive for information, but after that…"

Filian gripped his meat hook tightly, knuckles white, and smiled bitterly. "It will be a pity that she won't live to see her last sunset."

* * *

_**Crimmy Comments:** Just so you guys know, I'm going to update every Thursday! Thanks for reading!_


	5. Chapter 4

_**Crimmy Comments: Next week will mark the first full month that this fic has been going, so I'll be doing a double upload! The next chapter will be up on Monday, 5/13, and a subsequent one will be posted on the usual Thursday.**_

_**Thanks so much for reading, everyone!**_

* * *

Fillian and his friends took to the crowd in the marketplace. They weaved throughout the throngs of people with ease and Connor saw more than a few pocketbooks and purses lifted. Connor glanced once more at his comrades before looking around again. He was perched on a church roof, his feet nimbly gripping the rod iron cross as he used his Eagle Sense to spot his target. Stephane was at the bottom of the cross, using a spyglass to search in the opposite direction.

After a few more minutes, Stephane gave a start and hissed to Connor. "Oi, I spot her! Ze Lady Maverick is over by zat bread shop, and by ze looks of it, zose blokes all around ze canopy aren't waitin' on ze baker."

Connor turned around, gripping the cross firmly, until he spotted a gold dot among the sea of red. He blinked again, his eyesight returning to normal. "We will get closer before we give the first signal," Connor said as he climbed down from his perch. The Assassins flew across the roofs. They had already knocked most of the guards unconscious while scouting the rooftops, and they were grateful now that the shift hadn't yet changed.

As they went, Connor passed over Fillian and stopped at the edge of the building. He gave a pigeon coo, the signal for action. Fillian gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, and followed on the ground.

As Connor and Stephane neared the bakery, they crouched low and slunk across the rooftop until they reached the edge. Lying flat on their bellies, they peered over the gutter trim. Below was a canopy shielding several merchants from the sun, all of them goading passing customers to try their wares and goods. The Lady Maverick sauntered up to the merchants, feigning interest. She was flanked by two men, either mercenaries or Templars. After a while, a fellow with a powdered wig and glowing gold moved beneath the canopy, towards Gillian McCarthy. They were meeting.

"All those folks down zere, zey're not just zere for cupcakes, are zey?" Stephane more suggested than asked as he peered through his spyglass. "I bet my right nut zat zey're either mercenaries or Loyalists."

Connor nodded. The groups of people surrounding the canopy were not there for the goods. His eagle sense revealed them as a bright red. "Yes, but we must try not to hurt them. The Loyalists are still civilians."

"Zen what do you propose?" Stephane glanced up at Connor. Connor smiled.

He used his Eagle Sense once more. Fillian and his crew were in their places. Connor gave the signal, a low bird call, and threw a handful of smoke bombs by the canopy.

Within seconds, people were screaming as Fillian and his team threw more smoke bombs underneath the canopy, trying to flush out the Lady Maverick. It was successful and she ran out of the far side of the throng, shoving people aside as she went. Connor glimpsed her with his Eagle Vision and gave chase across the rooftops. Stephane whistled loudly as they moved in the direction of their target, signaling Fillian's group to their positions.

Screams and cries of rage and confusion followed Connor's ears as he nimbly navigated the steep terrain. The Lady Maverick glanced over her shoulder at him a few times, recognition mingling with her fear and anger as she ran through the town. She knew that he meant to kill her. It might not be immediate, but the end result would be the same.

"POLICE! POLICE!" she screamed as she curled through the streets with Assassin's on her heels like dogs on a hunt.

But no soldiers answered her harried cries. The Assassins had already taken care of the guards on shift, either having knocked them unconscious and dragged their bodies away, or killed them.

She cursed something under her breath and shoved some pedestrians out of her path. Her long, green skirt whipped around the corner as she dove into the alleyway to break the line of sight. Fillian whistled to his comrades; it was an order to go around and cut off the exits. Connor felt the cold weight of acknowledgement fall on his shoulders. They had planned this chase. They had planned on cornering this woman and interrogating her, possibly killing her before the end of things. And Connor had a feeling that if he didn't kill her, then Fillian would.

Pushing all other thoughts aside, Connor continued barreling across the rooftops. Finally, he was over the Lady Maverick and she was cornered in the center of an alley intersection. There were four exits between the buildings, and Assassins blocked each one. Connor was joined on the rooftop by Stephane, who was cursing in French under his breath.

"So, we finally have ze bitch cornered, eh?" The Frenchman puffed.

Connor nodded and watched the Lady Maverick down below. She looked like a she-wolf trapped in a corner. Her nose was flared and she was panting heavily as she weighed her options of escape or battle.

This was part of the plan. Three of the exits of the alleyway had at least two people blocking it. The last exit only had one. They were counting on her to use that exit, from which point they could funnel her into a dead end further away from the main street. Gillian McCarthy took the bait. She darted towards the fourth exit, throwing down a flash bomb behind her. The recruits yelled vehemently at the light and sound. Fortunately, Connor was far enough away from the blast this time that he wasn't entirely blinded and deafened by the blast. He saw the Lady Maverick run towards the intended exit, which was fine.

However, the lad that was blocking it was supposed to get out of the way. He was supposed to dodge at the last minute and let her pass. But the boy was too busy scrubbing his eyes on the back of his hands to think clearly. He turned his back to their target in order to run. Connor tried to shout a warning to him, but it was too late.

The Lady Maverick was immediately upon the lad. She stabbed him with a knife and rolled across his back as he doubled over. Connor couldn't see exactly how bad the wound was, but a cold fear tingled at the edges of his mind. The boy would probably die from blood loss before any doctor could save him.

"GET UP AND HELP GEORGE!" Fillian roared to his compatriots. He gave one reluctant glance over his shoulder at his fallen comrade, and then rejoined Connor and Stephane in the chase. They had gotten this far, and they needed to finish the job. If the stabbed boy died, then at least it wouldn't be in vain but…

Connor just wished that there wasn't a need for anymore death.

Pulse pounding in his ears, Connor descended down the path of buildings so that he could be on ground level while chasing the Lady Maverick. From a balcony, to a sign post, to a canopy, to a crate, to the hard-packed dirt, the Assassins pursued. They finally got her into the corner that they wanted. But was it worth it? Connor could question that later.

"Drop your weapon and turn around slowly," Connor ordered, his voice stable despite his hard breathing. Stephane and Fillian stood on both sides of him, and a few shadows from above let him know that at least two of their comrades had caught up. They would likely have their pistols drawn, ready to shoot Gillian McCarthy if need be.

The Lady Maverick snarled like a beautiful beast. "Never!" She eyed an open window nearby and Connor knew that she meant to leap through it at the first given chance.

"Don't even think about it! We have eyes and ears all over this town and we won't stop hunting you until you answer our inquiries!" Connor threatened, the bluff only half lie.

She grinned, and in that grin, all beauty fell from her sweaty face. Her pale skin was taut with bitter desperation and her eyes dark with greed. "You'll never get what you need, Assassin. The world is beyond your grasp, much less your comprehension. I will never surrender."

And with that, she flung her knife at one of the thieves on the roof. Her aim hit and the man gave a pained scream as a knife buried into his thigh. He pulled the trigger.

The thundering clap of gunpowder echoed in Connor's head as he seemed to watch in slow motion. He had been moving forward, trying to keep the Lady Maverick from diving into an open window. But she didn't get the chance to. Her back bowed in a sudden jerk, her eyes wide and her body going rigid from the force of a bullet tearing through her chest. Her legs gave out and she collapsed against the open windowsill.

Connor cursed as he hesitated. She wasn't dead yet, but the wound was fatal. She would die in a matter of minutes.

Fillain roared something in Scottish and shoved Connor aside in the narrow alleyway.

"Idiot! You damned fool!" Fillain shouted to his sister as he pulled her to the ground. Blood was blossoming out from beneath her body and turning her bright green skirt into a mottled, ugly brown.

Fillian wrenched his face into something composed and knelt down beside her twitching body.

"You're a horrible, traitorous wretch, but at least tell me something, Sister. Tell me what the Templars are planning! Where is the cargo from the docks and who gives you your orders! You may still be redeemed yet," Fillian demanded.

The Lady Maverick laughed, blood spitting out from between red teeth. "You're just jealous because you wanted to be the one to kill me…" she wheezed.

Fillian hesitated, shifted, and tried again. "Tell me what the Templars are planning, Sister."

"They're planning a new world, dear Brother. But you knew that…" she coughed, chest rattling as the next breaths were the most painful ones yet. "It's too late… It's too late for you and your Assassins… The cargo has already been shipped. You think this war is over, but it's not. We'll have our war…we'll have our battles and our blood… and when all is said and done, when all the heathens and morons and gluttonous fools have reduced each other to scraps, then we'll rebuild this world in our image. The Templars will succeed. And you, Brother? You'll just die…" She wheezed again, her breath harsh and short as her body trembled in the throes of death. Her eyes began rolling in their sockets as she fought to focus. "After all...B-Brother… We're fam-family…Y-you go where I-I g-go…" she shuddered again, her eyes glazing over at last. Her final words were a hushed, gasped, whisper. "…See you in hell…"

Connor could feel his heart pulsing in his chest. It was uncomfortable and squirmy and the sensation made him nauseous. He knew what it was like to have a family member die by his own hands. He had killed his father just like Fillian had been the death of his Sister. Connor shoved the thoughts aside. This was not the time.

Fillian stood abruptly, as if scalded by the blood leaving his sister's body.

"…We need to leave. The gunshot will have attracted too much unwanted attention…" Fillian said firmly, numbly. His clenched hands shook at his sides.

"Yes. We'll need to inquire at the docks next," Connor proposed.

Fillian nodded, his back still to his comrades as his gaze stuck to his sister's cooling corpse. "We've already checked the Southern docks with no leads. The Northern docks have been too heavily guarded, but we've been watching one of the harbor masters lately. If we can get to him before the Templars then we ca—"

_**BANG!**_

Connor flinched as something whipped over his shoulder, making his hood flutter against the side of his face.

Fillian pitched forward, a bright red hole appearing in the mass of untidy, blond hair. A fountain of blood sprayed onto the alleyway dirt, littered with bits of gray matter and bloody bone fragments like a burst melon. His body collapsed beside his sister's and it twitched and convulsed as the nerves died one by one.

Stephane cursed somewhere in the background and Connor whipped around just in time to avoid two dead Assassins being thrown from the rooftop.

"Well, I suppose that was a bit anticlimactic," a British voice from above drawled.

Connor looked up as he heard a pistol being reloaded. The sun was bright, but he could make out the figure of a man in a Redcoat uniform, flanked by three other Templars. The Native Assassin's blood rushed in his ears as he realized that they were trapped. They were fish in a barrel. He had smoke bombs, but they would do no good. The Templars would either wait until the smoke dissipated to shoot, or else shoot them as they fled the smoke cloud. If they went through the open window, the Templars could just go to the opposite side of the roof and wait for Connor and Stephane to exit. They were trapped.

"I can't say that I expected to see the Mentor of the Colonial Brotherhood here of all places, but I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth," the Templar finished reloading his pistol. "It's just a shame that the hunt wasn't nearly as…promising as I was hoping. I thought that the man who defeated the Grandmaster would be a lot more entertaining than this."

The British Templar leveled his pistol at Connor and Stephane. "But no worries. I'll kill you and interrogate your French dog for information. Then, well, I don't' know if you heathens have any imagination or not, but I'll dismantle your Brotherhood limb by limb."

Connor whipped out his own pistol and pointed it at the rooftop, using his Eagle Vision to see past the sun's glare. "I'll kill you as well," he threatened lowly. Stephane also had his own gun pointed up to the roof. Although it was doubtful that they could leave this situation unscathed or even alive, at least they wouldn't go down without a fight.

The man up above seemed to hesitate and for a brief second, Connor thought that there might not need to be any more death today. But such a wish was fruitless. He was wrong.

"I'll mount your head on my wall, heathen," the man snarled, pistol unwavering.

Connor focused on his aim and held his breath.

Then a scream came from the rooftop as one of the Templars lurched forward, a blade sticking out of his stomach, before falling off of the sword to the alley below. The Redcoat Templar reeled backwards from the edge, just out of line of Connor's pistol as he focused on the new threat.

"YOU!?" he hollered, firing his pistol at the newcomer.

The other man, someone who glowed a faint, marbled mix of red and blue leaped at the Redcoat Templar. Somehow, behind the Eagle Vision, Connor couldn't help but feel that he knew the stranger. He blinked and used his regular vision just in time to see the man silhouetted against the sun, his coat trailing behind him like the tail of an eagle.

"CONNOR!" Stephane yelled as he shot the last remaining Templar from the rooftop. "LET'S GO!"

Without another thought, Connor grabbed onto Stephane's arm and threw down a smoke bomb around them. He used his Eagle Vision to see through the smoke and drag his friend to the open window. He didn't know how many other Templars were on the rooftops, but hopefully, the stranger up above would provide enough of a distraction.

Connor paused before he headed through the window, stooped to pick up Fillian's body, and dragged his fallen comrade through with him. The lad was uncomfortably limp and his temperature was rapidly cooling. Connor fought the urge to look at the place where Fillian's face should have been. He didn't want any more nightmares than he already had.

Connor slung Fillian over his shoulder and ran.

* * *

The last few hours had been eventful.

Connor and Stephane had managed to find the thieves' safe house, where they left Fillian's body and took a scant breath of time for themselves. However, they could not rest, would not rest, until they found the shipped cargo. Connor sent a couple more recruits to gather the fallen comrades. However, if the Templars had taken the bodies already, then that would be a more difficult task to accomplish. Nonetheless, Connor had other concerns to attend to. There would be time for mourning later.

Connor and Stephane had trailed the harbor master from the Northern docks and cornered him. An hour and a lot of broken bones later, Connor and Stephane had somewhere to start.

"What did he say?" Stephane asked as Connor wiped the blood off his knuckles in the dirt.

"That man who attacked us is called Matthew Davenport. He led the British in this area during the war," Connor dusted off the backs of his hands and walked away from the small alcove that he had been interrogating their target. "After the British troops were disbanded and sent home, Davenport remained behind to conduct his Templar plots."

"So ze Redcoats pull out, but one little bugger stayed behind to make all zis trouble?" Stephane clarified, giving a cold chuckle. "Sounds like one of ze wenches at ze Green Dragon Inn."

Connor blinked at Stephane, raising a questioning eyebrow. "One of the barmaids is a British Templar?"

"No, uh… I mean, ze pulling out…and she's always getting pregnant and…never mind," Stephane sighed.

Connor still did not understand what that had to do with the predicament, but he let it go. Stephane had such a strange sense of humor.

"Did ze poor sod give us any more information?" Stephane asked.

Connor nodded and led them to the stables that had their horses. "Yes, there is a fort a few miles from here that was supposed to be abandoned after the Redcoats were ordered to leave. The cargo from their latest shipment was sent there."

"And if ze Templars have already moved shop?"

"Then we hunt them down."

Connor knew that good things never came easily to anyone, but he had hoped that, just maybe this once, it would be simple. He had hoped that the cargo was still at the abandoned fort and that all it would take were some threats and a well-placed powder keg to pacify the Loyalist rebels. But the Loyalists couldn't see that they were just being manipulated by Davenport. His hold on them was too solid and unwavering.

Instead, Connor and Stephane snuck into the fort only to see that all of the cargo was gone. They found some poor Loyalist to interrogate outside of an outhouse and learned that the cargo had been sent off already. It had been laden with weapons, ammunition, food, and medical supplies. While one shipment had been sent the previous day, the other convoy had just gone out that morning to a separate location.

"Stephane, go after the convoy," Connor ordered as soon as they were out of range of the once-abandoned fort. "I will see to the other fort."

"With all due respect, Connor, I don't think zat's a good idea," Stephane countered. Connor turned towards him, brow furrowed, but gave a nod to entice an explanation.

"Well, we both know zat I'm not as fast as you are. You'd 'ave a better chance of catching up to the convoy unannounced zan I would. I would do better attacking ze fort instead," Stephane explained as they mounted their horses.

"But sabotaging the fort is dangerous, Stephane. I have seen enough comrades die today. I would not like to see you added to that list."

Stephane chuckled dryly. "I've no intention of dying yet, friend."

"Then we will attack both together, first the convoy and then the fort," Connor argued.

"Zat's wasting too much time and you know it. Merde, Connor! I know zat you don't want me to get hurt, but if we don't stop ze Templars, zen a lot more people will die! Ze longer that we argue, ze less time we've got to keep the keg from blowing up under our asses!" Stephane snapped in frustration. He sighed, rubbing his head with one hand. "I'll be fine. Really. I've worked by your side for enough years zat I'd hoped you'd trust my abilities enough to take down one measly fort."

Connor sighed, feeling his gut clench. He knew that Stephane was right, but he still couldn't help but worry for his friend. Finally, he nodded his consent and turned his horse down the path to intercept the convoy. Even if he pushed his steed, it would still be daybreak before he could catch up. There would be no time to double back to the other fort. The Templars would likely move it all before he could even get there.

"Very well, Stephane. I expect to see you at the Marsh Water Inn by midday," Connor smiled and gave a nod.

The Frenchman returned his nod with determination. "Yes, sir, Mentor."

The two Assassins parted ways and Connor hoped that it would not be the last time that he would see his friend.

The Native Assassin tried to focus on the task at hand as he rode his steed down the path. Whenever he closed his eyes, all he could see was Fillian's body lurching forward at an unnatural angle. He could feel the lad's dead weight on his shoulder. It made him sick to think about. Four Assassins had died today. They had died in a mission to save thousands, yes, but they had died nonetheless. Was it worth it? Connor had seen so much blood in his years as an Assassin, but it hardly seemed necessary anymore. Perhaps he was just being self-righteous. He had killed many, many people on his hunt for Charles Lee, but now that the war was over, rampant death hardly seemed essential to his cause.

Or maybe he was just sick of it.

He was tired of washing the blood from his hands. Killing was easy, but it shouldn't be.

Connor laughed at himself as he rode. He was being ridiculous. Although he was little better than a mass murderer at this point, at least he had a cause. He was sane and skillful, and if he was the one killing the Templars, then at least no one else needed to get their hands dirty. If his entire existence boiled down to something, it was that he had been a pawn in the games of some unnatural creatures from long, long ago. But because of that manipulation, he had blades and the means to use them. No one else needed to take his place. No one else needed to be hurt or be used. He could do it for as long as his body and mind held out. He would fight in the overblown game of Assassins versus Templars and hope that someday, he could find another way to achieve peace without resorting to violence.

For now, he needed to catch up to the convoy. Achilles would be rolling in his grave if he knew that Connor was wallowing in self-pity whilst on a mission.

That brought a smile to Connor's face and he pushed his steed again. A few hours later had him checking the fresh tracks on the dirt path leading to the next town over. He pulled off of the main road and tied up his horse before taking to the trees. He ran and jumped and climbed his way through them until he was near the convoy.

There were seven Loyalists altogether. Connor dropped from the trees and took out the two in the rear as quickly and quietly as possible. The first one didn't get the chance to scream before Connor cut open his throat, but the other just had enough time to make a gurgled shout as Connor laid into him. The convoy didn't stop, but a soldier between one of the wagons peeked back.

"Oi, what's going on back there!?" he called. Upon seeing only dead bodies in his wake, the driver halted with a sharp, surprised yell. "WE'RE UNDER ATTACK! WE'RE UNDER ATT—" he finished with another wheezy cry as Connor killed him.

The two wagons finally stopped and the Loyalists guarding it came rushing at Connor. He dispatched them easily, cutting through them with his tomahawk and hidden blade until only the drummer remained.

Connor approached the lad with careful, measured steps. The drummer was not yet a man, but not a boy either. He was too young to be wrapped up in this nonsense. A wet spot quickly spread across the boy's trousers as he shook and cried and stuttered at the Assassin in front of him.

"Get out of here," Connor growled lowly. How dare the Templars use children to fight their battles! "Drop your drum and remove your coat and get out of here."

The drummer didn't need to be asked twice. He quickly dropped everything and fled the scene.

Connor kicked the items to the side, pulled the corpses away from the wagon wheels, and tied the convoy together with a strong rope from the supplies. He then led the wagons down to the river and released the horses.

The convoy was filled with a number of good supplies and ammunition. Connor made sure to restock his saddlebags before rolling a keg of gunpowder to the side of the wagons. He aimed his pistol and shot the keg. The result was instantaneous. The keg blew up both of the wagons with an ear-shattering blast. Birds flew off from the trees and the forest seemed to go silent save for the crackling and popping of burning cargo.

He didn't bother to stick around much longer. Connor mounted his horse and headed back into town. He was exhausted by the time that he arrived, but sleep wasn't something that he could indulge in. Connor rented two rooms in the Marsh Water Inn and waited down at the bar for Stephane to arrive.

Worry gnawed at Connor's gut as the hours ticked by. Perhaps Stephane had been injured? Perhaps he hadn't even been able to infiltrate the fort yet and was still scouting the area. Or perhaps he was dead. Connor sincerely hoped that the latter was not true.

Just as Connor's restlessness began to get the better of him, he glance to the door for the hundredth time as someone entered the inn. His expression swelled with relief as Stephane walked in. He looked dour, but otherwise okay.

"Stephane, I am glad to see you. I had begun to think the worst," Connor admitted as his friend sat beside him.

Stephane was all frowns and seriousness, however. "It's good to see you too, Connor. But we need to talk somewhere less open."

Connor nodded and led the way up to the rooms that he had rented. There, he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Were you successful?" he asked.

Stephane laughed and sat backwards on a chair. "Yes and no. Ze fort has been destroyed, ze cargo decimated, and ze Loyalists subdued. But I didn't do any of it."

Connor frowned. "How so?"

"Someone else got zere before me. I don't know who, but he took out everything and nearly everyone," Stephane scrubbed at his head a little. "I thought zat I might not get any answers at all, but I found some poor Mexican bloke who was still alive. He wasn't alive for much longer, unfortunately, but he was alive enough to tell me a few things.

"He said zat it had been only one man who attacked them, a British man who killed like ze Grim Reaper himself, who took out ze ammunition bunker with ease and cut down anyone standing in his path. Ze Native didn't speak English very well, but he said that ze man was an older fellow with a hat like a taco," Stephane laughed bitterly.

Connor nodded and rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "Do you know if this man is a friend or foe?"

"Not a clue," Stephane admitted.

"What is a taco? If his hat belies his allegiances then perhaps we can track this fellow down."

Stephane looked at Connor again, blinking owlishly, before burying his face in his hands and laughing. "Oi, Connor, a taco isn't a sign of allegiance to anything or anyone. It's a food. It's a food that ze Natives of Florida ate before Spaniards made zis place their home."

Connor made a face. "Then we have a strange, but powerful man on the loose that wears food items on his head? He should be rather easy to track."

"Like I said, ze man I asked was dying and didn't speak fluent English. He probably meant zat it was a tricorn hat, and zere are hundreds of British men with tricorn hats around here."

Connor sighed and nodded. "Then this mystery man will wait until another day. For now, we can only hope that he doesn't interfere with us or join the Templars. In the morning, we will ask the other Assassins what they think. Fillian mentioned having a promising British recruit recently join him."

Stephane flinched a little at hearing Fillian's name, but he took it in stride and nodded. The two Assassins rested for the remainder of the day and set out in the morning.

At dawn, they met up with the other Assassins in the safe house. The dead had already been buried. Connor paid his respects and then spoke to the others.

There were only a handful of Assassins and even less recruits in this part of town. Apparently, the ruckus the day before left a several deserters in their wake. The British ex-soldier that Fillian mentioned was nowhere to be seen and hadn't reported in since the day before. It was a sour reminder of the weight the Assassins carried, but Connor couldn't be angry. If he had thought, for one minute, that becoming an Assassin was had been a choice for him, then he would've declined. But as things were, as fate and creatures from another time urged, Connor took the path of blood and blades. He could not ask the same of everyone else.

But nonetheless, the Brotherhood in Florida remained optimistic. They wanted the chance to expand and become stronger in the face of Templar threats. Connor gave the task his blessing as Mentor, and hoped beyond hope that they could find a capable leader before getting themselves all killed.

Afterwards, Stephane and Connor spoke again.

"Oi, Connor," Stephane started, walking up to his Mentor as they saddled up their horses. "I've been meaning to ask what we're gonna do about ze other cargo zat's already been sent off to Georgia." Stephane was restless and fidgety as he inquired. He was doing what he could to hold back that terrible temper of his. "If it's already all zere, zen the other Assassins, zey'll need 'elp. Ze Templars won't stop trying to incite a war between the Spaniard Loyalists and the Colonists unless we do something about it."

Connor sighed and smiled. "Then go to them. The Georgian Assassins look up to you as a leader, Stephane. Go to them and lead them."

Stephane's face lit up like the sun itself and he flung himself at his friend in a fierce hug. Connor flinched, but patted the Frenchman's back fraternally. Stephane really had proven himself over the years, so this was something that would be good for the French Assassin.

"I must go west, my friend. Our brothers here have told me that Davenport is fleeing to New Orleans," Connor said.

"Zen I will see you again, my friend, yes?" Stephane pulled back with a wide smile on his face. "And we'll chat in ze Green Dragon Inn and catch up on our adventures and I'll make sure to make you drink so much zat you'll be shitfaced for a day and a half!"

Connor laughed. "With the exception of extreme inebriation, that sounds like a fine idea. Until we meet again, Stephane."

Stephane nodded and climbed onto his horse. "Yes, until we meet again, Connor."

And with that, the two Assassins parted ways. Stephane headed to Georgia to corrupt Templar plans and Connor chased Davenport's trail.

* * *

The next day and next town west, Connor stopped in the marketplace to restock his supply of food. The market was painfully busy and Connor felt his head swimming. There were so many people, all stacked practically shoulder to shoulder as they bustled this way and that. It was like a wave of human beings, all intent on buying the best deal of the day and going on their way.

A decade ago, Connor would've been eager to explore and weave in and out through the crowds. But now that the appeal had lost its luster, Connor just wanted to completely avoid large crowds. But he needed more food for himself and his horse for the journey ahead. Davenport had taken to the sea towards New Orleans, but Connor could not risk a boat. He needed to follow the coast on horse. It was safer and more discreet, despite taking longer to get to his destination.

The lad was jostled to the side and he stumbled, bumping into a solid, male frame behind him.

"Watch where you're going, Boy," the man said, righting Connor with firm hands on his shoulders.

Connor's eyes went wide immediately and he forgot to flinch against the unwelcome contact. He recognized that voice. It was laden with a British accent and rough with years of use.

The Assassin whipped around, ready to confront the owner, but he wasn't there. Only the sea of shoppers met his gaze. Connor blinked and used his Eagle Vision to try and spot out the stranger in the crowd, but there was no one of interest. He screwed up his eyes, trying harder. He had felt someone! He had heard them! Unless he was hallucinating, then the man he bumped into would be nearby!

There. Finally, Connor wrenched his eyes into focus and he saw a trail of faintly glowing footprints leading him through the crowd. He didn't blink, afraid that his concentration would falter and his vision would return to its usual habits. He followed the footprints around the corner of a building, where they finally stopped. But there was no target in sight. Connor cursed under his breath and tried looking at the people passing him by. Many of them were likely staring at his odd behavior, but he didn't care. A fair distance ahead, he finally spotted a glowing white hay cart that was rolling away.

Connor tried to pursue the cart, roughly shoving civilians out of his way as he went. He could apologize later. For now, he needed to see who the man was. He needed proof of his existence or otherwise. Connor's head felt as if it was splitting open and his eyes were burning and throbbing with the exertion. Around another building, there was a thick crowd of people closing behind the cart. The rooftops were too far apart for him to pursue it from above and now, he could no longer see it on the ground. He blinked again, head positively searing, and his vision returned to normal.

The hay cart was gone and he couldn't see any more glowing footprints. Even though Connor was surrounded by a throng of people, he had never felt more alone.


	6. Chapter 5

_**Crimmy Comments: So here's today's bonus update! You guys have been so great to me for the first month that I've had this up and I appreciate everyone who takes the time to read this fic. Remember, I'll be posting up another chapter update on Thursday! Thanks again for reading, guys!**_

* * *

Connor was restless.

He tossed and turned on the hard inn mattress, his limbs tangled in the covers as if he were wrestling a bear. He was exhausted, but still sleep would not come. Perhaps it was a flickering light of the fire in the hearth that kept him awake. Or maybe the merry yelling and drunken singing from the tavern below stirred his consciousness to a rolling boil. Or maybe he wasn't as tired as his body was telling him.

Connor finally threw off the blankets and stood at the window, debating whether or not to take a journey on the rooftops to bide his time until fatigue would finally claim him. It was brisk outside, but it wasn't anywhere near as cold as winters on the Homestead. He opened the windows and a gust of wind blew in, making the fire sputter angrily, as if to scold him. He gave a silent apology, shrugged on his coat and boots, and hopped out of the room.

The windows of other buildings were still lit. People were awake, even at this hour, and celebrating the holiday with their families and friends. Connor leaped from roof to roof, hearing snippets of muted conversation and laughter coming from the homes. A small pang of envy shot through him, but it was quickly replaced with melancholy.

Achilles had taught Connor all about this holiday, Christmas, but they had never really celebrated it. Neither one of them believed in the god of Christianity, so it seemed a moot point. But after Achilles had passed, the people on the Homestead took every opportunity that they could to include Connor in their holiday festivities, regardless of what he believed. It wasn't that they tried to impose their beliefs on Connor; they would never do that. But instead, they went out of their way to let the Assassin know how much they cared about him by bringing him gifts and inviting him to their family activities. Connor may not have celebrated Christmas in the way that Christians did, but he had thoroughly enjoyed the warmth and company of all of his friends.

He sighed as he paused by a chimney billowing dark, warm smoke to the wind. Connor missed his friends. He missed them from the Homestead and from his Brotherhood. He had thought that by the end of the war, he would be able to reach out to others to cure the loneliness within his heart. But the end of the war against Britain wasn't truly the end. There was always another war to fight, always more bloodshed and reason to kill. There was always need for an Assassin.

He ran from roof to roof, trying to let the wind wash over him and cleanse him of his deceitful thoughts. Finally, he turned back to the inn. It was late, and finally, the lights in the windows began to go out one by one as the families turned in for the night. He passed by a window, daring just the slightest glance inside. A father was tucking his young son into bed. He leaned over to kiss the boy's forehead, muttering a soft goodnight.

Connor's footing slipped and he wheeled his arms to keep from falling off of the damn roof.

With an embarrassed flush staining his cheeks, he righted himself and kept going. He should know better than to be distracted while free-running.

When he returned to the inn, slipping in through his unlocked shutters, he hoped that sleep would finally claim him for the night. The tavern below was still noisy as music played and drunkards cheered, but it was much quieter than the ruckus before.

Connor stripped down to his breeches, fed another log into the fire, and curled up in bed again. His eyelids finally drifted shut, but still, he could not sleep. His traitorous mind kept picking at him, reminding him how alone he was in the worst of ways.

He had no family and all of his friends were hundreds of miles away. He was alone on a night where companionship was emphasized.

He didn't want to be alone anymore.

Connor considered going downstairs for a drink at the bar, but he wasn't comfortable enough with alcohol to consume it around so many strangers. Then, he thought about writing a letter to some of his recruits, but it would take weeks to reach them and he couldn't wait around for a reply. Finally, he briefly debated about finding a brothel to spend the night with a woman, but the idea made his stomach twist into a knot fit for rigging the Aquila's sails.

He had himself for company and that was it. Could he make the most of it? Would he?

Connor frowned as he tried to think of something to calm him down without exerting himself to blatant exhaustion. He held his hand in front of his face, contemplating whether or not he should use it. Masturbation always eased his nerves when they were frazzled, but it felt so…strange to do that in an inn. It was something he reserved for his bed in the manor and nowhere else.

A hot blush fired up his neck and face. It was something he USUALLY reserved for home. But there had been a few times when…when he and Haytham had…

Connor bit his lip and wrenched his eyes shut again as his hands hesitantly wandered across the plains of his stomach.

What did the hands of a woman feel like? Connor had fooled around a little bit with Dobby after the war, but they never really…they just kept their interactions manual and oral. Even though Dobby had touched him, he didn't quite remember what her hands felt like. Whenever she touched him, he could only think of Haytham, which shamed him to no end. Sodomy was an awful crime, but he had dolloped a heaping dose of incest on top. He frowned as his calloused fingertips traced his hipbones and loosened his breeches.

Dobby had rough fingers, he remembered that. Her flesh was softer in different ways and her breasts had been plump and pleasing to squeeze. Her body had trembled as he caressed her thigh gently and she had laughed at him for being so hesitant to touch. She was fit and still beautiful for her age. It was a wonder that she hadn't been snatched up for a bride long ago, though perhaps it worked out in Connor's favor. Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, belying the thin crow's feet wrinkles at the edges. She was older than him by two decades. Why did Connor find that so attractive? Perhaps it was because he appreciated her seasoned and mature approach to everything, including sex. Perhaps he just liked older women.

And older men, his traitorous brain reminded him.

Dobby was very good with her hands and even better with her mouth, Connor remembered that much. But he did have to wonder, as his hands traced the shape of his own bared buttocks, his breeches having mysteriously vanished under the covers; just ihow/i good was Dobby with her hands? He remembered her jacking him off, but could she do other things with those dainty, long digits? Would she be willing to sink them inside of Connor, to make him writhe and moan and beg as Haytham had done to him?

Dobby's hands were rough. Haytham's hands were rough.

Connor wrenched his eyes shut as he bucked into his hand. Too dry. Need moisture.

Panting slightly, Connor scrambled out of bed for his pouch and brought out his jar of bear grease. It had been so long since he used it for a purpose like this. He smiled faintly and smeared some of the goop onto his hand. Bear grease was rather versatile. He used it to tame his hair, and to prevent blisters on his shoulder where his quiver rested. It also was delicious on food.

And as Haytham had demonstrated, it made an excellent lubricant for penetration.

Connor flushed again as he knelt, knees splayed and ass in the air, as he pet the pucker of flesh between his cheeks. It had been so long… Should he do it? Another pang of loneliness racked his brain and it spurred his imagination. He imagined someone behind him, gently pulling the globes of his ass apart to reveal his eager hole. He moaned quietly into the sheets and his other hand stroked his half-hard flesh languidly.

The fictional person slipped a finger in slowly, only about halfway, before pulling out again. And the finger was back, halfway, teasing and taunting, and then out. Connor's groan was little more than a breath as his finger sank deeper into his body. There, it swirled and crooked before pulling out again.

Connor imagined that it was Dobby behind him, quirking a devious grin as she fucked him with her fingers. Her hands were rough. She said dirty things to him that his mind didn't even know he liked.

_'Do you like that, Connor? Do you get off on having my fingers deep in your hole? I bet you wish I had a dick. I'd fuck you hard and fast and you'd beg for it like a bitch in heat.'_

"Ohgodyes…" Connor breathed into the bedsheets. He added another finger.

The invented Dobby leaned over him, breath hot against his ear and voice deepening as a strong imaginary hand pressed on his upper back._ 'You like that, don't you. You like me holding you down and finger fucking you like a cheap whore.'_ The imaginary Dobby was strong, much stronger than a woman could be. The voice deepened more and Connor imagined another hand running along his hip, holding his ass in place. He pretended there was the cold steel of a hidden blade strapped to the person's wrist. It made him shiver in excitement.

_'You want my cock buried in your ass? I'll fuck you so hard you won't be able to ride a horse for a week.'_ The familiar voice was masculine and British and smooth as sin. He crooked his fingers again, all three of them, and rubbed against his prostate.

_'You want me, Son? You want to scream and beg for Daddy?'_

"H-hayt-AH! H-haytham!" Connor whined into the sheets.

_'Say it!'_ growled the fictional Templar as Connor thought of him lining up his cock and gripping his hips so hard that they would bruise the next day.

Connor keened lowly, rocking his hips into his hand as he ground against his prostate and furiously stroked his dripping dick. "F-fa—"

_'Say it! Beg!'_

"F-f! F-fuck me! Father!" Connor fantasized Haytham's thick erection pushing into his body with no resistance. It was slick and effortless and Connor pressed his prostate again as he came with a quiet wail. Semen splattered against the sheets and his fingers as he erratically tugged at his cock. His other hand was busy shaking and pressing against his prostate as he rode out his orgasm, hips rocking and bucking into his hands.

"F-father! Father!" Connor moaned desperately, voice thankfully muffled by the sheets.

His body shuddered and he turned his face to the side so that he could breathe again. He was flushed and slightly sweaty. Some of his hair had come out of his ponytail and stuck to his mouth.

With a hiss, Connor withdrew his fingers and rolled to the side of the mess. He made a face. It was too late in the evening to ask for clean sheets. He should've thought this out a little better. He wiped his messy hands on the sheet, covered it with the blanket and rested on top of the bedding altogether. He might get a little cold in the night, but it was his own fault for dirtying the bed.

Now that the blood in his body had properly redistributed, Connor felt his cheeks heat up again. He draped his arm over his eyes, praying to the spirits that he didn't moan or speak loud enough for anyone to have heard him. What was wrong with him? People shouldn't have fantasies like that! It was fine to imagine himself with a woman, but pretending that it was Haytham behind him in the end, fucking him to completion, was wrong! It was sick and twisted and Connor couldn't shake the dirty taste it left in his mind. Sons shouldn't want their father's to have intercourse with them. It was immoral on so many levels that Connor didn't know where to start berating himself.

It made him ill to want Haytham. They were both men and they were both related. It was so wrong…

Connor sighed as a pang of want shot through his chest. He gave a dry grunt of disgust, rolled over, and willed himself to his feet to gather his discarded breeches. Another log was tossed to the fire and Connor flopped face-first on the bed. His mind was treacherous at its best, and sickening at its worst. But he couldn't think of it now. It was too hard to concentrate and focus. He was too tired. He would think more in the morning. And maybe by then, he'll be able to write it off as a bad dream.

* * *

The next several days were borne under a bad mood. As Connor made his way to New Orleans, the increased security of the roads became more difficult to evade without bloodshed. Templars were everywhere and his recognizable robes stood out like a sore thumb. He walked his horse off the path as often as he could, but the marshes and swamps were becoming too numerous. He couldn't stand the thought of driving his horse to misstep on the dangerous terrain. It eventually came to a point where he had to abandon it or risk being discovered before he ever made it to New Orleans.

He unsaddled the steed, cooing words of comfort to the proud animal in his Mohawk tongue, before setting it off towards the main road again. With a small saddlebag looped over his back, Connor took off into the trees.

They were different than the trees he knew. The bald-cypresses were rough and the branches felt more brittle under his weight. The Spanish moss was thin and sparse on the lower branches until he made his way further into the swamp. There, the trees began to spread out and the moss was heavy and thick. It kept tangling in Connor's fingers and catching on his bow whenever he would leap from one branch to another. It was dangerous, far too dangerous.

With a huff of resignation, he took to the swamp floor. The terrain was foreign to the native and he made a face as his boots squelched and sloshed through the mud. Even in the middle of winter, this place was warm and wet. The humidity drove the Assassin to throw his hood back as he struggled to move at an even pace. The ground was a little more stable in short paths before it would drop off again into muck. The innocent puddles of water tricked Connor on more than one occasion. They seemed so shallow, but more than once did they send the Native reeling and splashing into the musty depths. Animals chirruped and insects buzzed as he pushed forward, slapping away mosquitos that seemed intent to devour him alive.

Overall, this was panning out to be a wretched adventure.

After some time of wading through thick water, Connor heard voices carried by the wind. He moved quieter through the swamp, trying to catch up and still remain undetected. There were three voices, all male, and judging by the gentle slosh of water, they were in a boat.

The Native waded across through a small inlet and finally caught up to the strange boat. It was unlike anything Connor had ever seen before. It was large and squat and boxy. The hull was rectangular and appeared to be floating _in_ the water rather than _on_ the water. There were many crates and other miscellaneous cargo aboard and two men were standing atop the cabin with obnoxiously long rowing paddles. They appeared to be prodding at the silt beneath the swamp waters, likely trying to keep the sides of the boat from colliding with the uneven bank. The third man was leaning against some barrels and smoking, apparently content to let his companions do the work.

"Oi, there's some blockage up ahead, Maven! Some timbers have fallen!" one of the men from the cabin shouted.

The man who was smoking, Maven, responded. "Then git your asses movin' and clear it away! We ain't got all night to get to New Orleans!"

Connor kept his head low as he waded closer to the boat. His eagle vision revealed that the men probably weren't Templars, but they still weren't allies either. They didn't even glow. And while Connor wanted to avoid confrontation, he also didn't want to be lost in the swamp. Asking for directions and safe passage was likely out of the question, but he could take the opportunity to stow aboard until they were out of the swamp.

The boat rocked to and fro, creaking ominously as the two men on the cabin tried to use their paddles to push the branches out of the way. Maven soon lost his patience, and climbed up top as well to shove one of them to the bank below.

"I said that we ain't got all night! Git down there and pull them branches out with yer cock if you gotta! Jus' get this pony moving before I git pissed!" he hollered loud enough to send birds scattering from the trees.

Connor took the opportunity to heave himself aboard, ducking behind various crates and barrels. Most of them were covered with canvas, particularly a large crate that was closer to the cabin. In one spot, the canvas was stretched over two different sized crates, making a small tented space between them. Connor quietly rushed forward and ducked under the canvas just as Maven was returning to the cargo area.

The ill-tempered fellow cursed constantly under his breath as he leaned against a barrel and resumed smoking. Connor could see his silhouette from the dying light outside. With bated breath, Connor waited. Soon, the vessel was moving again. The sun completely dipped below the horizon and Connor could only hope that they arrived soon. His legs were cramped and his back forming a mighty knot. It wasn't until he nearly allowed himself to fall asleep that he heard something.

Someone whimpered.

Connor froze, mind suddenly alert as another voice quietly hushed the one in distress.

"SHUT YER TRAPS IN THERE 'FORE I CUT OUT YER TONGUE!" Maven yelled again, his footsteps over near the largest crate by the cabin. "I'm sure your new masters wouldn't mind a Negro who can't talk back!"

Connor winced as the volatile words made his blood boil. Slaves. These men were smugglers and they were transporting human cargo to New Orleans. Connor grit his teeth and listened as Maven left the cargo area and went into the cabin. Only then did the Assassin dare to come out of his hiding place and slink over to the large crate. He slipped beneath the canvas and held his finger to his lips to gesture silence.

His eagle vision revealed a total of 8 terrified slaves trapped in what appeared to be a cage rather than a crate. One of them was a child, no older than 5, who was burying his face in his mother's bosom. Connor's heart throbbed in sorrow for the child.

"I will help," he whispered quietly. The slaves didn't respond; they only stared at him wide-eyed. For a moment, Connor was afraid that one of them would call for help, but none did. They remained as silent as before.

Connor slipped out from the canvas again and climbed partway up the short ladder that led to the top of the cabin. The two paddlers were conversing inanely. They didn't notice Connor until the Assassin was already upon them, silently knocking them out. He debated killing them for such atrocities as selling fellow human-beings, but part of him simply didn't want to. Yes, these men deserved to die, but not by Connor's hand. He had spilled enough blood for now. Instead, Connor shoved them overboard to let the wilderness sort them out.

Footsteps clomped about inside the cabin before Maven finally came out again. "What're you two numb-dicked, thick-skulled, morons doing! We stopped moving!" he yelled.

Within an instant, Connor leaped from the cabin and landed on Maven's chest, blade to his throat as anger flashed in his dark eyes.

Maven screamed and thrashed beneath the heavier bulk.

"Oh God, oh Christ almighty, I dun wanna die!" he whimpered.

"Then you should consider the sanctity of all life before you try to sell it for coin!" Connor snarled mercilessly. He should kill this man. He needed to kill this man. If he didn't end Maven's life, then the cycle would just repeat itself over and over again.

Maven noticed Connor's hesitance and tried to collect himself. "You, yer one of them Savage sonobitches, ain't ya? Look, we can cut a deal! I'll split wit ya! Forty percent sound good? No? Alright, 50/50, then! An even cut fer you and an even cut fer me!"

"No! You will release these people and pay for your crimes!" Connor heard a small scuffle behind him. He thought it was the slaves trying to see what was happening. He was wrong.

"Or you could roll offa my brother 'fore I carve up this one some'fin awful," another voice was behind Connor and he immediately cursed himself for not investigating the cabin before making a ruckus. There had been a fourth smuggler.

"LAVEN! Git this crazy injun mutherfucker offa me!" Maven yowled pathetically.

"If you so much as harm one hair on that person's head, I will kill you both," Connor threatened with a growl. He didn't budge as his blade pressed into Maven's throat harder.

The captive slave, a woman, made a short, shrill scream as the sound of ripping fabric filled the air. "Where should I start then, hm Negro-lover? Shall I cut her breast or her belly? Should I fuck her with my knife while her babby watches?" Laven threatened. The woman whimpered and began crying and pleading in an unfamiliar language while her child wailed from the cage.

Connor cursed again under his breath and finally loosened his grip on Maven. He stood, retracting his hidden blade and turning around to face the other brute. There was no way that Connor could knowingly endanger the well-being of innocent people.

The expected whack to the back of his head sent Connor to his knees. Maven hit him with something hard again and Connor's vision went black.

* * *

The boat finally docked, knocking Connor awake. Someone was hovering over him and he jerked, spooking the other person away. His head was throbbing and his shoulders were screaming in pain as he rolled over tenderly. He was in the cage with the other slaves. The woman who had been attacked had tied her dress onto her chest, and recoiled slightly when Connor looked at her. He sighed and tried to take stock of the situation.

All of his weapons were gone, his robes had been removed, and his hands were bound tightly behind his back. One of the other slaves, presumably the one who had hovered over him, neared once more. The man motioned to Connor's bared chest and the multiple leeches attached to it. Ah. So the man was helping him get the leeches off. Connor supposed he should've considered that when he went diving into the swamp.

The man neared again and Connor held his breath while the leeches were removed. He nodded his thanks once the task was complete, more grateful more that the stranger wasn't touching him anymore than thankful that the parasites were removed.

Connor sat up and cocked his head as he listened. There were the sounds of many people milling about and the rocking and commotion on the boat likely meant that they were unloading the cargo. Sure enough, the canvas was thrown back and Connor squinted his eyes in the sunlight. He and the slaves were led away from the boat and to a carriage by gunpoint. From there, it was a silent journey to the port, where they were herded into a small pen. There were two other Negros in the pen, both looking miserable and solemn. Within minutes, they were led away and auctioned off.

Distantly, Connor could hear Maven arguing with the auctioneers about the 'late shipment'. The traders wasted no time in stripping the new slaves and dumping buckets of cold water on them. One by one, they were pulled into a line and branded. The smell of sizzling flesh burnt Connor's nostrils as the slaves screamed in pain.

They had a much more difficult time handling the Assassin. He killed two handlers as they tried to wrench off his torn waistcoat and shirt. Cursing and roaring in rage, Connor fought. They finally managed to take all of his clothes save his breeches. He crippled another handler when they attempted to brand him, and snapped the neck of an unlucky fellow who tried to hold him down one more time.

Finally, the slave dealer stormed in, cursing at his 'inadequate' employees, only to be horrified by the carnage that the Assassin wrought. Yet all the dealer could see was money, even past the bloodshed. He ordered the rest of the reluctant handlers to skip the branding and settle for slathering Connor's skin with grease. The scars on his body and the small wounds from the leeches were masked with lukewarm oil and mud just barely before he was shoved out of the pen. There, one of the dealers stopped him. He held the hood of Connor's robes, having been ripped off at the seam, and slipped it over the Assassin's head. Finally, after a last once-over, the dealer slapped Connor on the shoulder and ordered the handlers to lead him out to a platform in front of a large crowd.

"And finally, ladies and gentlemen, we have a new, exotic, addition to our lineup today!" A slave trader bellowed to the buyers. "I hope that you saved some coin from your pouch, because this one is a magnificent addition to your workforce!"

He was being sold. He was being auctioned off like a piece of meat. Connor's stomach twisted as he tried to think of a way to escape. His hands were still bound and he could run, but he could not fight in this situation.

"May I introduce, the red-skinned strongman, scourge of the swamp, and loyal until death do you part, the NATIVE!" the dealer hollered and tore back Connor's hood. The crowd ooh-ed and ahh-ed, entranced by the dealers lies and impressed with Connor's rippling physique.

"He can lift a cart laden with twenty bales of hay! He can speak to the earth in his heathen tongue to harvest only the best produce! He answers only to his Master and no one else!"

Prospective buyers flocked to the platform and began poking Connor's chest and arms and face. He could feel their clammy hands on his oiled skin and he fought back the urge to vomit. A startled, embarrassing noise escaped him as he tried to back away, but a handler kept a firm hand on his back to force Connor to remain in place. He felt panic well up in his throat as someone pulled back his lips to try and look at his teeth. He bit them, earning a startled scream. A few buyers retreated and the snap of a whip barely phased Connor as it struck his back. Two other handlers came to the platform to hold the struggling, panicking Assassin in place.

"Ah yes! No one panic! He's only loyal to his master! So uh, he doesn't like others who aren't his master to touch him! But if you buy him today, you also purchase his loyalty! Ah! And you'll get his family heirlooms! These magnificent weapons were forged by the false gods of their legends! They're capable of slaying anything from the common burglar to a monstrous giant! Get these weapons today when you purchase this fine specimen!" the dealer tried to appease the nervous crowd. The enthusiasm that had hummed in the air was replaced with unease as the handlers fought to keep Connor under control. Finally, he stopped struggling and tried to calm enough to catch his breath. His head was buzzing and a part of him was simply hoping that he could find a way to escape before he killed someone in front of the crowd.

He used his eagle vision in the vain hope that an ally would be amongst the people. Instead, he spotted a fellow who glowed a vibrant, bloody red.

A Templar.

"60 pounds!" The Templar called over the roar of the crowd. The slave dealer first seemed surprised that an actual offer was made. But he quickly gathered himself up with a response.

"I've got 60 pounds from this gentleman over here! Will anyone oppose!" the dealer urged.

"63!" came another bid.

Connor ignored the banter between the auctioneers as he tried to look around more, searching for any way out of this mess. He wriggled his hands. Apparently, the lash to his back had also caught the rope holding his wrists together. It was frayed and loosened, but still tied fast. But if he could twist enough, he might be able to slip out of the rope and fight his way out.

Something caught his eye in the distance. It was a blue figure, using what appeared to be a spyglass to watch the auction unfold. He made some sort of motion with his hand, a signal.

"I've got 70 pounds from Doctor Wolcott! Do I hear a 71?!" the auctioneer bellowed. "70 pounds then, going once! GOING TWICE! SO-!"

An arrow whizzed through the air and struck the auctioneer in the throat, making him gurgle mid-sentence and flail backwards. People began screaming as half a dozen riders drove their horses into the crowd, throwing down smoke bombs and whooping and hollering. Connor spun around and kicked both handlers' knees. They screamed and fell to the ground, crippled, as their kneecaps shattered and their legs bent the wrong way.

Connor ducked inside the smoke, using his eagle vision to navigate. The horse riders were all glowing a comfortable, warm blue. Allies. Finally, with a roar of renewed strength, Connor snapped the rope binding him. Ignoring the numbness in his hands, he snatched up the crate next to the deceased auctioneer. He couldn't leave his weapons and robes behind. And his mother's necklace should be in there, it had to be in there, but he couldn't stop to check now. Grabbing his torn hood was an afterthought. He didn't want to leave anything behind for the Templars.

Half of the riders were fighting off city guards and the rest were hooking up carriages to their horses. Connor rushed towards them, throwing his crate into the back of the carriage and keeping his tomahawk in hand. He headed towards the pens where the auctioned slaves were held and made short work of the lock.

The other allies, he couldn't tell if they were Assassins or Negro rebels, helped to load the slaves onto the carriage. Within a few short minutes, they were riding away down the streets of New Orleans, horses huffing for breath and the carriage creaking dangerously as it was pulled at break-neck speed.

Connor remained in the carriage, armed with his bow and pistol, as he took out some of the pursuing guards. The world was a rush of wind in his ears as he defended the cargo. The carriage rode to the outskirts of town and disappeared into the swamp, leaving the awful mess behind them.

There, they quickly unloaded all of the escaped slaves from the carriage and were led down safe paths through the mire. Connor remained behind to help usher the elder and weaker of the lot, his own vulnerability forgotten in his need to help others.

It wasn't until they were all boarded onto small, easily concealable rafts, did Connor finally dare to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Well slap me silly and call me Sally, you did alright, kid," a Negro thumped Connor on the back heartily.

Connor slightly edged away from the touch and nodded. The man was one of the riders. Under Connor's eagle vision, he was a vibrant blue. "Thank you for your help," the Assassin nodded.

"Baw, think nothing of it. Name's Jean Malo, by the way. Now what's a Native like you doing around here? I thought that you all ran off further north," Jean settled next to Connor.

"I am called Connor," the Assassin began putting his robes over his bare chest. He left his destroyed waistcoat and shirt behind, but he could always buy another. His robes, however, were priceless. And with a brief smile of relief, he looped his mother's necklace around his neck again and adjusted all of his weapons. "I am looking for someone, but I am unfamiliar with this territory."

"Yeah, hence why you were captured by slave traders and auctioned off with the rest of 'em," Jean motioned solemnly to the escaped slaves. Some of them seemed genuinely relieved, but the rest looked worried and bothered by their daring rescue.

Connor nodded. "Yes. I was attempting to help some people escape from a smuggler, but I was careless," he admitted, hanging his head slightly in shame. It was such a novice mistake to make, and he had wasted the day away and become a target for New Orleans law enforcement because of it.

"Yanno, it's good to be hard on yourself at first. But you're safe now and these people are all safe, in part thanks to your efforts," Jean offered. "So beat yourself up for the next few minutes for getting your ass stuck in the fire, and then get over it."

Connor couldn't help the ghost of a smile on his face. But said smile fell when he caught sight of a brand on Jean's upper arm. It was faded and scarred with time, but it still stood out as pale white lines amidst the dark skin.

"You are also an escaped slave," Connor pointed out.

"Yep, ran away years ago, and no intention to go back. Now, this is what I do," he said, motioning to the rafts. "And every now and then, I'll throw in my bets with your kind, too."

"My kind? You said the Natives had moved north of these lands," Connor raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Jean reached out with a long, spindly finger, and tapped Connor's bracer. "Not that kind, THAT kind. The ones who wear your crest, kid."

Connor nodded. He was a friend of the Assassins. "Do you know Aveline?" he asked.

Jean just gave Connor a wide grin and whistled a cheerful song in reply.

He breathed slowly, letting the tension drain out of his shoulders as he tilted his head back to look at the trees. Dozens of well-armed warriors were hidden in the gloom and camouflaged by the branches. They no doubt defended the swamp. In addition to the rebels, intricate traps hung from the white cypress branches, prepared to swing down and crush any intruder. It was no wonder that the guards of New Orleans hadn't infiltrated the swamp yet. These people had made it into a deathtrap for all unwelcome visitors.

Jean Malo hummed a jaunty tune under his breath for some time before they docked again. Night had fallen, but Connor could still see strange houses built in the trees and on wooden docks that sloshed gently in the water. Connor helped the escaped slaves disembark one by one until the rafts were empty. He was about to follow after them when Jean Malo whistled for his attention.

"Hey kid, this way. I've got someone that I'm sure you wanna meet and who I damn well know will wanna meet you," Jean Malo headed into the opposite direction. Connor followed to a small treehouse. The windows inside were still well lit and Connor could see movement.

Jean rapped on the door and none other than Aveline answered. She cast her intense stare to Jean first, then Connor, before standing aside and allowing them to enter.

"Jean, Connor. I suppose this means that the mission was a success," she greeted stiffly.

Jean sat on a stool and crossed his arms over his chest. "We freed the slaves that were to be auctioned off and in the meantime, we ran across this fellow, too. He helped us a lot," he jerked his head to Connor and his tone changed. "And he asked for you by name, but I didn't know that you knew his name, too. You both familiar with each other?"

Connor didn't care for the suspicion of Jean's voice, and apparently, neither did Aveline. She huffed and rolled her eyes. "We've worked together, many years ago," she explained simply. "So put aside your petty protest and let's work. We've got a long night ahead of us."

Judging by the dark circles under her eyes and her short attitude, Aveline was not in the mood to catch up on trivialities. That suited Connor just fine.

"Why are you here?" she asked Connor as she sat again at her desk. There were maps and diagrams and books spread everywhere.

"I am searching for Matthew Davenport," he said simply, leaning against a wall. "I heard that he has come to New Orleans and intends to unfurl Templar machinations."

"Oh, he's been unfurling all of his 'Templar machinations' for years, Connor. When I took out the Company Man, the Templar Grandmaster assigned Davenport to this area. Things were…better, but still ultimately under Templar control. But then you killed the Grandmaster, and ever since then Davenport has been running on steam. We've finally cut off all of his funding and his troops are on their last leg." A hungry gleam shined in Aveline's dark eyes. "He thought he could run off to Florida, but one of our agents has seen to it that he's returned to New Orleans. Though I suppose calling him one of 'our' agents is overestimating us a bit. I still don't trust him completely, even if he foiled some of Davenport's war plans for Florida."

"Do you mean the Templar traitor?" Connor asked, remembering the conversation he overheard between an outraged Gillian McCarthy and her informant.

Aveline smirked. "The very one. I've never met him in person, but Jean has."

"Aye, he's an older British fellow, but don't let that age fool ya. He'll slit the meat from your bones in an instant if he's gotta," Jean piped.

"Does he wear a tricorn hat? Are the Templars after him and his journal?" Connor asked, suddenly feeling more of the puzzle pieces slipping into place.

Jean nodded.

So the Templar traitor and the man with the taco hat could be the same person, if second-hand word of mouth could be given any consideration. Perhaps he was even the same man who saved Stephane and himself in the alleyway in Florida.

"What is his name?" Connor asked, curious. Jean shrugged.

"I dunno. He dun tell and I stopped asking. For all we know, it could be a Templar scheme to lull us into trusting him. But it's equally possible that he just hates the Templars and wants his pound of flesh from them."

"Regardless, he's an ally. For now," Aveline folded her hands beneath her chin. "I hear that he was even at the auction today. He was the one to signal the others into action."

Connor nodded slowly. He wanted to meet the Templar traitor now, but part of him thought that was an awful idea for some reason.

"What will become of the escapees?" Connor asked.

"Those who are willing to fight may join either Jean's rebels or the Assassins. Those who don't wish to partake in the violence will be escorted to allied settlements further north."

"You are building an army," Connor stated, one of his eyebrows raised.

Aveline nodded. "Yes. It's taken years of effort and bloodshed, but with Jean and my troops combined, we have a small, but skilled force. We will defeat Davenport and the Templar control of the area. We have already infiltrated the Spaniard ranks to place our allies. It's only a matter of dethroning Davenport at this point."

"Then it seems that our interests are aligned," Connor said. "I want to stop Davenport before more blood is shed. If I could also meet the Templar traitor, then my journey will be entirely worthwhile."

"You may get both of those chances, Connor. The Templar traitor is set to move in on Davenport tomorrow. Jean and my troops are to attack a plantation just southwest of Davenport's home. Ever since the Templars have begun to lose influence in New Orleans, Davenport hired a Templar by the name of Victor Wolcott to fill in the holes. He uses poison and herbs to raise an army of zonbi from slaves. All Negroes live in fear of the monster, while the white men see him as some sort of doctor. Once we stop Wolcott, then Davenport will have little or no support from the Templars any longer. He will be a sitting duck, ready for the plucking."

"Will you fight with us?" Jean leaned forward on his stool, elbows propped on his knees and something like an eager fire of hope lighting his eyes.

Connor crossed his arms over his chest in thought. He wanted to stop Davenport, but he also understood the importance of destroying Wolcott's plantation. A mental shudder ran through the Assassin. Wolcott was the name of the man who had been trying to purchase him at the auction.

"Yes," he decided. "I will fight."


	7. Chapter 6

Idiot boy!

What kind of Assassin Mentor gets himself captured by slavers and put up for auction? Connor was fortunate that Jean Malo had planned to disrupt the auction weeks in advance, else the idiot boy would've been sold to that Templar doctor!

He huffed a little and rubbed his temples. Connor was getting himself into all sorts of trouble lately. First it was Davenport in Florida, and now it was Wolcott in New Orleans! He frowned. The boy was like a dog with a scent. While he found himself strangely, warmly pleased that Connor was well, he didn't approve of the boy meddling in his affairs. He had hoped that the Assassin would chase the contraband cargo to Georgia after Florida was cleared, but Connor was too dutiful for his own good. Bah. They were both getting too old for these reckless shenanigans.

He couldn't afford to have Connor involved in anything deeper. It was too dangerous.

He needed to eliminate all Templars who coveted the journal. They knew too much and he could not afford to allow the information to fall into their hands. He had to kill Davenport before Davenport killed him. They were playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse, and he was playing it more dangerous yet by working alongside the Assassins.

While the Assassins knew that his journal was important, they did not know why. It was only a matter of time before his usefulness to them ran out and they turned on him. If they knew what the journal belied, then there was no doubt in his mind that they would want it for themselves. After all, who wouldn't want a weapon that could ensure absolute victory, even if that was at unspeakable costs? He could not think of many people capable of denying the temptation. It had been Charles who had convinced him not to use it. Now he owed it to his dear friend to see this through.

The man sighed again and thumbed the spine of his journal. So much ruckus and bloodshed for one worn and tired thing. These Templars could not have it. The Assassins could not have it.

Once Davenport was dead, he would take his battles north. Hopefully, Connor would return to Boston. For now, he would rest for the upcoming attack on Wolcott's plantation.

Haytham had a big night ahead of him.

* * *

Crickets chirruped in the well-manicured grass and somewhere in the distance, a bird cried. The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, leaving a faint purple glow on the bellies of the clouds. Connor kept his hand firmly clasped over the mouth of the person he currently had in a strangle hold until the unfortunate slave fell unconscious.

"It would be easier to kill them," Aveline hissed quietly, barely audible over the crickets' song.

"Easier does not imply better," Connor countered quietly. His fellow Assassin merely rolled her eyes and motioned for their men to get into position.

The perimeter guards were unconscious or otherwise disabled for the moment, leaving the troops to stalk over the fences and slink about in the crops. Connor glanced towards a slave shack a few acres away, barely catching the flickering of a lantern. It was their signal that all was clear. The plantation was massive and had several different locations for the slave houses. Troops were divided up to watch the shacks, prepared to form a defense if the brainwashed slaves were to raise arms.

Meanwhile, Connor, Aveline, and Jean Malo made for the main plantation house with a small regiment of Assassins and rebels following them. They knew that there were a few slave houses tucked away on the immediate property, but they expected everyone to be asleep or else guarding the perimeter. The patrolling Negroes were immediately disposed of, but the trio did not expect a teenage boy to emerge from an outhouse just in time to witness the Aveline stabbing a particularly aggressive guard in the stomach.

The boy screamed and ran.

Jean scooped up a small rock and lobbed it at the boy. It hit home and he fell, but the damage was already done. Windows in the slave houses lit up and Negroes emerged seconds later with shotguns and sickles.

Aveline and Jean dove behind a shack, narrowly dodging gunfire, as Connor rolled behind a haycart.

"Do not kill them! They are victims of Wolcott's drugs and manipulation!" Connor called to his comrades.

"I share your sentiments Connor, I really do, but I'm not gonna stay my blade if it means gettin' my balls shot off!" Jean hollered back.

Connor had expected a response like that, unfortunately. And the worst part was that he partially agreed. Still, he would do his best to not kill these poor people. Victor Wolcott was playing the part of a Voodoo witch doctor. He pretended to heal, but he was poisoning his slaves with a drug that made them easily susceptible to suggestion. Most were convinced that they had died and been brought back to life by Wolcott, forever enslaved by his will. The doctor used Gris-Gris and talismans and fake spells to keep the doubtful in line. He sowed fear like seeds in his fields and ultimately, he used the Negroes like toys. Even if Wolcott was not hired under Davenport, Connor still would have aided Aveline and Jean. Wolcott was a monster against humanity.

There was a ruckus from the main plantation house and Connor spotted a man in his housecoat running to the stables. He gave chase, only to nearly be trampled by the emerging horse. The Assassin cursed and tried to string up an arrow to shoot Wolcott from afar, but a slave tackled him to the ground before the shaft flew. Connor twisted under the zonbi and smacked him hard with his bow. The zonbi rolled off of him and attacked with a knife, cutting and slicing at the air that Connor once stood. The Native countered, breaking the man's wrist with a sharp crack, and threw him into another oncoming slave.

More zonbi maids and butlers, armed with steak knives and fire pokers, poured out of the plantation house as Jean joined back up with Connor.

"Really?" Jean yelled, mouth momentarily agape. "Wait, where's Aveline!?"

Connor braced himself for attack as he fought the brainwashed slaves. "I do not know! Perhaps she is chasing Wolcott!"

"Can't be, I saw her go in the opposite direction!" Jean broke some poor sod's leg and shot another maid in the face with his pistol.

"She can take care of herself!"

"It's not _just_ her that I'm worried about!" Jean snarled possessively.

Connor was too busy wrestling a slave to the ground to comment. Off in the distance, he could hear the gunfire and shouts of the other parties. By now, the other slave shacks would have been awoken and tried to come to Wolcott's aid. But the Assassin and rebel troops were waiting to intercept them.

Within minutes, Jean and Connor had the slaves subdued. There were two extra horses in the stable and though both of the animals were rattled and nervous, they would suffice. Connor quickly bridled one of the horses and mounted, saddleless. Jean followed suit, often glancing over his shoulder in the hopes that Aveline would soon arrive.

As they rode the horses from the stables, Connor's nostrils flared. There was a strange smell. It was something burning, but it wasn't any sort of fire that he could recall. Jean shouted and pointed to a woman running from the plantation house as quick as a deer.

"BACK UP!" she hollered to them. They didn't quite have time to pull their steeds away before there was an odd cracking noise, followed by an explosion.

The horses whinnied and reared, nearly throwing the riders off. Aveline covered her head with one hand and her belly with another as she stumbled, barely avoiding being thrown off balance by the force of the blast.

Odd purple, blue, and pink smoke rose from the flames and they smelled something awful. Within seconds, the entire plantation house was on fire.

Jean scooped Aveline onto his horse and spared just a second to gently caress her cheek. She was positively beaming as they rode away from the house.

"What kind of fire is that?" Connor asked, fighting the urge to drive his horse into a sprint. He was itching to do anything to get away from the flames.

"It's chemical. I recognized some of the ingredients in Wolcott's lab, so I helped myself," she grinned.

Jean shook his head in a mixture of disbelief and simmering anger. "That was reckless," he muttered.

"Reprimand me later, Jean," Aveline said. "Connor, we need to help the rest of our troops."

The Native nodded and turned his horse. "Then I will locate Wolcott." He gratefully spurred his horse with his heels. The skittish animal neighed and sped forward, eager to ride away from the burning plantation house as well.

Connor rode down the path that he saw Wolcott take, but he had no direction other than that. He knew that the man had ties with important people in the city, but he had no idea where the vile doctor would go first and he certainly didn't have the time to stop and investigate.

He screwed up his eyes and used his Eagle Vision instead. If he tried hard enough, maybe he could replicate the footprints that he saw when chasing that stranger last week. The horse protested as it was slowed into a canter and Connor squinted and focused until his head ached.

Then finally, he saw them. There were hoof prints on the cobblestone path—hoof prints that no normal eye could see. They glowed and shimmered and wavered, and Connor could tell that they were from Wolcott. He just _knew_ it. With a triumphant grin, he urged his horse again and sped towards the docks, not daring to stop his second sight for a moment. His head felt fit to burst, but he couldn't avoid losing the trail.

Before long, he heard shouting up ahead and gunfire echoed off of the cobble road.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU IDIOTS! KILL HIM! KILL HIM NOW!"

Connor recognized that voice. It was Matthew Davenport. Switching his visions back to normal with a blink of his eyes, he fought back the migraine threatening to cripple his mind. There was a man with a tricorn hat tearing through a regiment of guards like a hot knife through butter. Davenport was disheveled and terrified as he fired his pistol into the fight, not seeming to care whether he hit friend of foe. Wolcott was cowering behind some barrels, still in his housecoat and clearly unwilling to participate.

Connor's horse gave a high, frightened whinny as it reared at the boom of another gunshot. Connor leaped off of his spooked mount and sprinted towards Davenport and Wolcott. He was still so far away, but he could see them.

Wolcott finally came out from behind the barrels and tried to pull Davenport away from the fight.

"We must leave! The ship will be ready to set sail in a matter of minutes!"

"Get OFF of me, fool!" Davenport roared.

"NO! You promised to protect me! You must take me on your ship!" Wolcott's voice was pitched with fear as he clutched to Davenport's arm. The redcoat snarled and threw his fellow Templar aside. It might have been comical, the way that Wolcott's arms pinwheeled right before he fell into the water, but it just meant that Connor lost sight of his target.

He charged towards Davenport just as the Templar turned towards him. Davenport stepped aside and drew his sword, striking out as Connor dodged. The redcoat's eyes bulged as he looked at Connor, rage and fear mixing into a disgusting expression.

"Why can't you insects just die!?" he screamed.

The man with the tricorn hat finally finished with the last guards and fired a pistol at Davenport. He stumbled as the bullet hit him in the back with a wet sound under the thundering bang. However, he did not fall. Instead, he dropped his own gun and rounded on the stranger with his sword.

Connor chanced a glance to his unknown companion and his eyes widened in disbelief. It was Haytham. Haytham Kenway, his father.

"AND YOU! WHY WON'T YOU DIE ALREADY!? JUST DIE! DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE!" Davenport punctuated each syllable with a strike of his sword.

Every blow was expertly parried and Connor knew those movements belonged to his father. It was not a farce, it was not a disguise. But how? How could this possibly be!?

Connor's head was pounding and his vision was growing grainy behind his migraine. His pulse was thundering in his ears, but he finally shook off his disbelief and found an opening. With one smooth motion, he drove his hidden blade into Davenport's side, puncturing his kidney. Davenport pitched forward and Haytham caught the falling man, turning him at the same time to cleanly slice his throat.

The redcoat Templar gurgled, his body trembling in the throes of death, before finally collapsing.

Connor reeled backwards, chest heaving for air as he shook his head despite himself.

"Y-you! But how…how are you?!" Connor tried to speak.

Haytham's eyes were tired in the dim light, but he looked only minutely older than during their last battle. He wiped his bloody sword on Davenport's coat sleeve and sheathed it.

"Connor," Haytham acknowledged with a vague nod of his head. His posture was still smooth and posh, despite his age.

The Assassin's face twisted in a myriad of emotions. There was a tightness in his chest and anxiety swirling in his belly. His head was pounding and he couldn't find the words to begin to say.

"If you'll excuse me," Haytham said curtly as he swiftly moved past his son. There was still enough crew on the ship to pose a problem and they were nearly ready to set sail.

Connor stood rooted on the spot as the former Templar Grandmaster leaped from the dock and began scaling the ship's hull. He knew that he should follow and help, but he still could not understand what was happening. His skull was searing and he only barely noticed a man leaning over the edge of the ship, pointing something at Connor.

He felt a sharp sting in his arm. Looking to it, he spotted a small dart sticking out of the fabric of his sleeve. He pulled it out. The needle was long enough to go through his robes and puncture his skin.

A sudden wave of nausea swept over him and he stumbled to the side as his vision swam. From somewhere in the distance, he heard a man yell. Then, the ship was moving and there was a splashing of water and Connor knew that he should give chase but his legs didn't seem to want to support him anymore. He tumbled forward before his shaking knees gave out.

The native fought to keep his rebelling stomach in check as the salt-wet ground cooled his cheek. He heard someone cursing and yelling his name and as boots swam in out of his vision. He knew that closing his eyes would be bad, but the world was moving too much and his head was throbbing. Did he mention that his head hurt? If he closed them, then it might help the pain and nausea. It would just be for a second…just a second…

* * *

When Connor awoke, he noticed two things. Chiefly, that he had to urinate. Secondly, that he was very stiff, as if he hadn't moved in a long time. Someone was nearby, with a bucket or bowl of water. He pried one eye open slowly with a low groan.

A young Negro boy was sitting nearby and gasped in shock when Connor moved. He almost dropped the bowl of water and the cloth he was using.

Connor opened his other eye, instinct taking over as he tried to sit up. "Who are you? Where am I?" he demanded, his voice rough and dry.

The boy shied a little, but then shook his head as if he didn't understand.

"What am I doing here?" Connor demanded again, only to realize that he wasn't speaking English. It was no wonder that the boy hadn't been able to understand him. He had slipped into his native tongue on accident. With a sigh, he rubbed his temples and tried again.

"My apologies. Where am I and who are you?" he tried again, this time in English.

The boy was still scared, but he settled down beside Connor's cot.

"You have been ill, Mister. We are in the swamp, among friends here," the boy responded quietly. "I am Jonathan."

Connor sat up slowly and stiffly. He thought to use his Eagle Vision, but the muddled memory of associated pain deterred him. "Where is he, the….British man that I was with?" Connor asked, having little bits and pieces of the night on the docks flow back to him.

The boy shrugged with a puzzled expression. "I don't know, Mister. Miss Aveline and Mister Jean brought you back here last week. You were really sick."

Connor nodded, remembering the strange illness that had crippled him. It must have been poison from the dart. "Is Aveline or Jean nearby?" he asked. Jonathan nodded. "Would you please fetch them?"

The boy ran off and Connor stood on shaky legs. So it had been a week since the night on the docks. That wasn't good. The Native went outside to relieve himself and was just sitting on the edge of the cot again when Aveline and Jean approached.

Jean smiled widely upon seeing the Native awake and quickly scooped Connor into a strong hug. The Assassin tried to pull away with a startled grunt, but the rebel leader didn't let go until he saw fit.

"Connor! So good to see you back with us!" he thumped the Assassin on the back.

"We didn't know if or when you would come back to your senses. You were in a rough spot for a while," Aveline added with a nod in Connor's direction.

The Native finally pulled away from Jean and sat on the edge of his cot. "Tell me what happened."

"Not much to say, really. Wolcott got you with one of his poison darts. It was a good thing that the Templar traitor was there. He got you to one of our Voodoo doctors here in the swamp before the poison could kill you. We tracked you down the next day and found you downright delirious and sick. The priest did what he could to counteract it, but he said that the poison would just have to run its course and hopefully spare your life," Jean said with a shrug.

"And Wolcott?" Connor asked, folding his hands in his lap.

"Escaped on a ship at first," Aveline added with a grin. "But your friends from Georgia sent some backup. They arrived just in time to blow Wolcott out of the water before he made off to the Caribbean."

The Mohawk smiled. Stephane must have sent the ships shortly after arriving in Georgia. "Then Wolcott is dead?"

"Well no, not quite. He escaped then, too—the slippery fat bastard-but he took a keelboat up the Mississippi. Our good friend, the Templar traitor, followed him upriver about 6 days ago."

Jean huffed and crossed his arms. "I wish we knew that fellow's name. We didn't get the chance to thank him properly for saving your life."

Connor glanced up at Jean, eyes wide. "You do not know who he is yet?"

"Well, no. I've already told you that," Jean narrowed his eyes. "Do you know who that man is?"

Connor diverted his eyes and clenched his hands together. "I…have my suspicions. But I am uncertain. When I am positive of his identity, then I will tell you," he said. There was still a chance that the Templar traitor wasn't Haytham. After all, Haytham was dead and dead men didn't just climb out of their graves to fight Templars. Maybe Connor's mind had played tricks on him? His head had been aching something terrible at the time and then he was poisoned, so maybe it was some sort of hallucination. He couldn't say until his was absolutely positive that the stranger was Haytham.

Connor stood with conviction. "I must find him again to confirm his name, and I must kill Wolcott. Is there a way to catch up to them?"

Aveline shrugged and turned to leave. "Yes, there is a way, even though it's still in an experimental stage. Eat and rest, Connor. We'll have everything prepared for you to leave in the morning."

Morning couldn't come soon enough.

With rations packed and all of his weapons and robes cleaned, sharpened, and ready to go, Connor headed towards their meeting place. It was a small dock along the Mississippi where a strange boat was tethered.

"This is a steamboat," Aveline waved her hand with flourish. "One of the engineers from Pennsylvania designed it, but the Templars sabotaged him. He ran south and he's been working with us to finally release a working model. It's still a bit rough around the edges, but it should get you upstream faster than any keelboat."

Connor nodded at the strange craft. It looked dangerous, with the billowing smoke stack and some sort of mechanical grinding and sputtering coming from within. But if sailing it meant that he could catch up to Haytham and Wolcott, then it would be worth the voyage.

"You'll have an engineer with you who's familiar with the schematics, so you won't have to sail it alone," Jean added.

"Thank you both. I am uncertain when I can return the favor, but if there is anything that I can do in the future, I would be honored to help," Connor shook Jean's hand sincerely.

The rebel laughed. "Kid, you've done enough. Davenport and Wolcott are both gone and now, we can work on reforming New Orleans."

"That's right. We'll make it a better place for all children to grow up, no matter their skin color, together," Aveline added, shaking Connor's hand in turn.

Connor smiled at them and boarded the steamboat.


	8. Chapter 7

_**Crimmy Comments: I don't know a lick of Mohawk language or Cherokee language or really any Iroquois languages and researching it makes my head spin. From what I understand, Mohawk and Cherokee are similar languages, but of course, they're not the same. For the purposes of this fic, I'm going to pretend that they're close enough dialects that Connor can understand Cherokee decently enough and vice versa. If I'm wrong, feel free to notify me and I'll do what I can to fix it. I mean no offense by my lack of knowledge regarding Native American languages! Thanks for understanding in advance!**_

* * *

The trip upstream was hazardous at worst and nerve wracking at best. The boiler was constantly under the threat of blowing, a menace that would abruptly end Connor's search in the worst of ways. But somehow, be it by the spirits or by sheer luck alone, the vessel carried them to their destination. What would've taken two to three weeks in a keelboat took them three days. And although the steamboat sank just as they rigged it to the port, Connor was pleased. Haytham and Wolcott were at the port just hours ago.

It was a bustling harbor in the western-most territory of North Carolina. How the state succeeded in keeping the land under their rule while being so far away was a mystery to Connor, but how the colonies managed their states was no longer his business. He was done with them. What mattered more was finding his targets.

Along the trip up the Mississippi, he had risked using his Eagle Sense again. He could only activate it in short increments without a crushing migraine, but it was an improvement. While this enhanced sense was very similar to his second sight in the past, there were several differences. He could see the footprints of all of his targets now, or the path that they had taken. He could hear their heartbeats like a soft thunder in his ears, and he could see farther than his normal eyes could even fathom. His Eagle Vision had evolved.

With his new Eagle Sense, he could see two sets of footprints leading away from the docks—one gold and one marbled red and blue.

Connor followed the trail. Wolcott's footprints split off from Haytham's. It looked like the man had begun to run and Haytham had been stalking him from the rooftops. Connor kept pursuing the prints to a small alleyway behind some buildings. Both sets of footprints convened by a bush, and only one set walked away. He blinked back to his normal vision, ignoring the smell of fresh blood and spilled excrement, and peered into the thick foliage.

Wolcott was dead, his eyes wide and unseeing as his blood watered the bush where he was hidden.

An unwelcome swell of pride filled Connor's chest, but he quickly squashed the feeling down and assessed the body. Wolcott had been killed from a sword to the stomach and his intestines were tangled in the bush branches. The man had been dead for about five hours, by the looks of it. Connor sighed, partially with relief. At least the horrible man was gone, but what of his killer?

Connor didn't want to think that Haytham had somehow come back from the dead to murder Templars, but he hated the idea of someone impersonating him even more. He must find the renegade Templar and get his answers. Under his Eagle Sense, Connor followed the marbled footprints until they ran out at a horse stable and became a floating, shimmering trail through the ether.

A quick handful of questions to the stable hand revealed that a British fellow had come through earlier in the day and bought a horse. He had seemed prepared to travel a great distance.

The Native Assassin paid for a sturdy horse as well (likely a good day for the stable's business) and gathered up more traveling supplies. He was close, he could tell.

And if Haytham was alive, then Connor was determined not to lose him again.

* * *

**March 15, 1784**

A month passed. Then another. And all the while, Connor was maddeningly close to finding Haytham. He could see the trails, he could stop at all the inns and shops and still, he could not find the once-Templar. Connor felt as if he were sometimes going in circles; no doubt it was Haytham's attempt at losing the Assassin on his tail. Haytham obviously did not want to be found and he was making the journey very difficult for Connor.

He tried to investigate what Haytham's final destination could be so that he could head his father off, but there were no clues. Not even discreet, coded letters sent to and from his recruits in the Colonies gave any idea just what the Templar was up to. No Assassins climbed the rooftops and no Templars were plotting underground. Everyone was either a civilian or part of the militia, and Connor wasn't comfortable interrogating them about possible Templar activities. The only conflicts were either domestic, or between the Natives of the area and the Colonists.

Connor was often mistaken for a hostile Native, not that he could particularly blame people for being so wary given his array of weapons, but he wished that they would listen to reason. For over a month, it had been difficult to find an inn to spend the night. The innkeepers either turned him away or else raised the price to ludicrous amounts. Food was becoming more and more expensive as well, but Connor was hesitant to hunt on the lands; the lines between the Cherokee land and the colonists' territory was so blurred that it literally varied from day to day.

Irritation finally won him over. A shopkeeper was charging him triple the standard price for a piece of dried meat and Connor had enough of the discrimination. He snatched the meat from the shopkeeper, left the standard amount of money on the counter, and stormed out with the man's angry yells echoing after him. Colonists warily eyed him as he came out of the shop, untethered and mounted his horse, and rode off without another glance back.

Although he was hesitant to stop on Cherokee land, he knew that getting supplies from the Colonists was becoming a very slim option. The Natives would likely discriminate him as well because of his half-blood heritage, but at least they might not be as severe.

Connor rode towards wisps of smoke rising along the horizon. By nightfall, he arrived along the outer perimeter of a large Native camp across from the Chickamuaga River. One of the Cherokee men stopped him, raising a bayoneted rifle swiftly enough to startle Connor's horse. Connor hushed his mare down and stared at the man from beneath his hood.

"What business do have you here, stranger?" the man demanded.

Connor could understand him, but only just. Mohawk and Cherokee were similar Iroquois languages, but with different dialects.

"I am a traveler and I would like to ask your Chief for the privilege of staying on his lands during my journey," Connor responded in his own tongue as he pulled his hood down.

The Cherokee man sneered while he evaluated Connor. "Surely a mere traveler would not be so heavily armed."

"I must speak with your Chief," Connor reiterated, ignoring the implied suggestion.

The man thought about it for a moment and motioned with his bayonet again. "Dismount and disarm. If you speak the truth, then you'll see your horse and supplies again. And if not…" the man simply bared his teeth.

Connor did as the man bade, making a mental inventory of his weapons and supplies should any go missing. He was reluctant to remove his hidden blades, but an extra glare from the Cherokee warrior made it clear that it was best to leave absolutely all weapons behind, particularly concealed ones. Once stripped of his armaments, the Cherokee checked him over one more time before motioning again with his gun for Connor to walk.

Another warrior emerged from the gates and took his horse as Connor was led through the town. Even though it was late, a few people were still smoking by the fires. They all stopped their activities in favor of watching Connor being herded to the Chieftain's hut. A few younger children poked their heads out of their tents to watch, only to be shushed by worried mothers and pulled back inside. Connor couldn't help but feel oddly like a prisoner back in Bridewell or worse, like a white man in a Native camp. It was unsettling.

Finally, a man emerged from the Chieftain's hut. He was heavily decorated with tattoos on his shoulders and chest and beads in his hair. He crossed his arms as Connor stopped in front of him.

"What is this?" He asked crossly.

It took everything Connor's power not to make a face. "I am Ratonhnhaké:ton of Kanien'kehá:ka. I would like to consult the Chief of this village."

The decorated man sneered. "I _am_ the Chief of this village. Now speak!"

Connor sighed in frustration. "No, you are not. I wish to speak to the Chief."

"Are you arguing with me halfling?!" he stepped forward to intimidate Connor, but the Assassin stood his ground and tried his best to check his temper. He didn't want this to escalate into an argument or a battle, but his patience was wearing thin. Too many nights on the hard ground and not enough food saw to that.

"Quiet, Little Owl," another man emerged from the Chieftain's tent. His face was scarred by smallpox and he was built like a bear. Tattoos covered his torso and arms and he wore several expensive shell necklaces. He held an authority that no other could match.

The warrior fraud winced as if burned and he immediately backed down, diverting his eyes from the elder Cherokee. "He is a halfling, Brother. He does not deserve your council…" he tried.

The scarred Cherokee glanced at Little Owl. "His merit is not yours to judge." The younger man shrank and backed away.

"It's been a long time since I've had any dealings with the Mohawk," the scarred man said. "But where are my manners! Welcome to our home! I am Dragging Canoe, the Chieftain of this village. You wish to speak with me, yes? Then come inside," Dragging Canoe offered. He motioned to the warrior herding Connor. "Bring food and drink for our guest."

The warrior reluctantly lowered his weapon with a nod and left to fulfill his task. Connor, though glad to be rid of him, was hesitant to follow the War Chief inside. He thought to insist that they quickly talk so that Connor could be on his way, but he knew that refusing such hospitality would insult Dragging Canoe.

Once inside and seated on comfortable reed mats, Dragging Canoe lit up a pipe, puffed on it a few times, and passed it to Connor. The Assassin inhaled twice, tried not to cough, and handed it back.

"What do you wish to speak about? Have your people decided to continue their efforts against the Colonists as we have?" Dragging Canoe asked.

"My clan has fled their land. They no longer have territory left to defend," Connor stated simply, ignoring the pang of sorrow. "I am traveling through this area and I ask permission to pass in peace and to hunt on your lands as necessary."

"Why not use the white devils' route?" Dragging Canoe asked, a hint of venom lacing his inquiry.

Connor sighed. "I am…unwelcome on Colonist settlements. They fear my skin color, much like your warriors here do."

"Ah yes, you must forgive them. We've been at war with the white devils for many years. They've slaughtered our children, raped our wives, and razed our lands. Naturally, my people are defensive of anyone outside of our…kind," Dragging Canoe's tact was barely sustainable. "You understand."

Connor understood. Once again, his mixed heritage was another curse and the Chief was making excuses for the blatant racism.

"So if you're not fighting the white devils and your people have already fled to another land, then why are you traveling? What is your destination?" Dragging Canoe asked, puffing away at his pipe again.

"I am uncertain where my route is taking me, but it is very important," Connor tried.

The Chief motioned with his pipe for Connor to elaborate. The Assassin picked his words carefully. "I am trying to find someone—a British man who passed through this area."

"Why is he so important that you'd cross our lands for him?"

"Because I need answers," Connor said. "He is either someone who should be dead, or someone impersonating a dead man. I must know."

"And what is a dead man to you?"

Connor hesitated. Dragging Canoe didn't seem like an Assassin or a Templar and the warriors had shown no recognition of Connor's robes or the insignia tied to his belt and etched to his bracers. "…He could be my father. I won't know for certain until I find him."

"A white man is that important to you?" Dragging Canoe sneered. Connor nodded. "What will you barter for permission to walk my lands?"

Connor feared that a trade might be involved. He furrowed his brow at the Chieftain proudly. "I will not kill in your name."

Dragging Canoe tipped his head back and laughed. "Is that all you would think that I needed? Although I would prefer if the white devils were…fewer in number, mindless slaughter is not the political move that I need."

"I have some furs and supplies, and I am a good hunter."

"Unnecessary. We've plenty of food and game here."

"Then what would you ask of me?" Connor inquired skeptically.

Dragging Canoe grinned around his pipe. "The time will come, Ratonhnhaké:ton. The time will come."

The two Natives spoke over food and drink. Apparently, Dragging Canoe had built this town and ten others after he broke off from the other Cherokee clans. They were known as the Chickamuaga Cherokee to the Colonists and from the sounds of things, Dragging Canoe was rather belligerent in his attempts to regain Cherokee land. Although Connor could not agree with the massacre of all Colonist towns along the river, he kept his opinions to himself. As tempting as it was, he didn't want to get involved in a war between the Colonists and the Natives. Connor didn't want to see more bloodshed, and as long as Templars stayed out of the battles, then Connor could do his best to keep the Assassins out of it, too. This had nothing to do with them.

By the end of the night, Dragging Canoe granted Connor permission to travel on his lands and ordered Little Owl to write out the order.

"You still have not told me what you need in return," Connor said. He didn't like taking something for nothing, especially when the consequences might have him embroiled in a war he wanted no part in.

"I'll let you know when I can think of something!" Dragging Canoe offered in an attempt at good humor.

Connor wanted to protest, but he knew that arguing with the Chieftain would only result in bitter resentment. But it was a small comfort to know that he never fully agreed to anything. Connor still had a choice to decline whatever task Dragging Canoe sent his way.

The Cherokee warrior from the gate bade him goodbye the next morning. "Have a safe journey, Brother. May the Spirits guide you," the warrior said. All of Connor's supplies and weapons had been returned and his horse had been brushed and well fed.

"And to you, Brother."

Connor rode off with a bitter taste in his mouth.

* * *

**May, 1784**

Two more months had passed and Connor was still no closer to Haytham. Part of him was reluctant to even continue this wild goose chase, but another part of him was compelled to see this through. Haytham was supposed to be dead. Connor remembered his blade sliding into his flesh at the junction of neck and shoulder. There had been a funeral. Charles Lee had looked positively heartbroken. The greasy man had been a good actor, but he wasn't that good. His grief had been real. Haytham had been dead.

_But there was never a body._

But how could Haytham have survived? And if he did survive, then why had he crossed the Colonies to kill Matthew Davenport? Why did the Templars want him dead all over again?

Connor thought that it was more likely that the man was an imposter. Some fellow with a resemblance to Haytham was probably raising a ruckus left and right to make some sort of political statement between Templar and Assassin. But if he was an imposter, then he had no right to take up his father's visage.

Connor was frustrated. He didn't want it to be an imposter. A slim hope fluttered in his chest that Haytham was alive. But why should he be hopeful? Haytham was a terrible person and a Templar to boot. So why was it that thoughts of the British man—his father for goodness' sake!—had Connor reaching a hand to his own crotch and palming the growing heat between his legs?

Connor bit his lip, hesitant to moan freely even though he knew that he was alone. Outside of his tent, the only noises were the crackling fire and the soft breaths of his sleeping horse. Anything above that felt as if it would wake the dead.

The Native mentally berated himself for indulging in fantasies of his father performing indecent things on him. But he couldn't shake the longing. A fleeting idea crossed his mind. What if he just wanted Haytham back for the sex? It was a sickening thought, but a dark part of his mind cheered. He wanted more from Haytham than physical interactions, but said physical interactions might be welcome again.

Connor raised his hips just enough to slide his breeches past his buttocks. He spit in his hand and rubbed himself. Haytham's mouth had been a very pleasant thing when it wasn't spewing out condescending nonsense. He never thought that he'd seen the Grandmaster Templar's lips look as luscious as when they were wrapped around Connor's dick. Connor stroked himself with a soft groan. It had been over six years since he lost his virginity to Haytham, but it was still one of his favorite fantasies.

* * *

**February, 1778**

"Are you _trying_ to make my men mutiny against you?" Connor demanded, his temper flaring as he glared daggers at his abrasive father.

"If you hadn't confiscated my weapons, then I wouldn't have resorted to breaking a stool over his head," Haytham rebutted as if it were common sense. Pity, really. It had been a fine stool.

"You are on my ship, Father! You are among my crew and I cannot tolerate such blatant insolence!" Connor argued.

"Oh, finally growing into your britches, are you Boy? I am not one of your crewmates. Refrain from treating me as such."

"Correct! You are far worse than any sour crewmate—you are a Templar! Shall I instead lock you in the hold as a prisoner? I thought that my hospitality would prove above words that I am attempting peace by working alongside you to find Benjamin Church! But if you would rather spend your days in a dark hole with naught but the rats, then by all means, I will accommodate you!" Connor hollered.

A thump on the door interrupted them.

"WHAT IS IT!?" both Templar and Assassin snarled.

A moment of hesitation. "Jus' making sure yer alright in there, Cap'n…" came the sheepish reply.

Connor rubbed his temples. "Yes, I am fine. We are merely…discussing matters. Please resume your duties."

"…Yessir."

Connor took off his tricorn hat and set it on the edge of his desk. The captain's quarters were well furnished with a desk, chair, and bed all bolted to the floorboards. It wasn't much, but it was his. And the Aquila was his. Haytham had no right to strut about like a rooster and pick fights with his crew. Though Connor didn't know exactly what had escalated the fight, it had been enough that one of the crewmates—a catty old man with too many pockmarks on his face and too few teeth in his mouth—had to be rushed to the medic's bed with a bleeding skull. They were too far away from land to dock, so the old man's life was in the hands of the doctor aboard.

"If he dies, then you will be held responsible for his murder," Connor said lowly. "I cannot protect you from justice."

"Oh, that's laughable. Firstly that you, an Assassin, only now advocate so-called 'justice' in the face of murder. Secondly, the old man won't die. I didn't hit him _that_ hard," Haytham said as he picked under his nails.

Connor closed his eyes, clenching his hands into the fabric of his coat to keep from lashing out. "What I do is necessary. I only kill bad people."

"Yes, and I'm the fairy godmother," Haytham replied, flicking away some of the dirt from his nail.

The Assassin glowered. "No, you are a bitter, disrespectful, cantankerous old man!"

"And you're a naïve fool!" Haytham countered. He threw his hands up in the air. "I knew that your mother endorsed a free-spirited nature, but I didn't think that she'd raise a careless idiot because of it!"

Connor lunged forward, grabbing his father by the lapels of his coat. _"You have no right to speak of my mother!"_

Haytham easily kneed Connor in the gut, head-butted him, and threw him to the wall. "Protective, are you? I've news for you, Boy; you're a completely juvenile idiot and your mother would be ashamed of you," he spat venomously.

Connor felt the rage rise within him like acid as he barreled into his father again. The two were punching and kicking and grappling and fighting downright dirty.

"You are just—" Connor grunted as he tried to get Haytham in a headlock. He wanted to say the worst things, anything to make Haytham feel the way that Connor felt. "—just a cruel old man sick enough to start physical relations with his own son!"

Oh, wasn't that the pot calling the kettle black! Haytham began a reversal and with a hearty grunt, flipped Connor over his back. "And you're disgusting enough to indulge in incestuous sodomy with nary a second thought!"

Connor rolled backwards into Haytham's knees, sending the older Templar to the floor. He climbed on top of the firm body to pin him and bent down to bite his ear. It wasn't hard enough to remove the flesh, but it was enough to make Haytham snarl and knee him in the groin.

Connor yelped as Haytham pushed him away and tried to turn the tables. He ground their hips together as they both made flustered, half-intelligible insults at each other.

"You're a-a good for nothing…unf…" Haytham panted as he all but tore off Connor's cravat and bit along his neck.

"Crotchety ol-old man… mmn!" Connor bore his throat as his hands tried to work off Haytham's obnoxious cloak and coat. It was suddenly far too hot in the captain's quarters as both men set to work removing their clothes. A few buttons popped off of Connor's waistcoat as Haytham tugged at it. The Native took the opportunity to raise himself up and suck a line of hickeys down his father's neck. Haytham growled lowly in his throat. They rolled around again, their backs striking furniture legs as they grunted and snarled and cursed at each other.

Then, another knock on the door.

"Um…Cap'n…You okay in there?"

Connor froze like a rabbit and then quickly scrambled from beneath Haytham's weight.

"Yes, I am fine," Connor schooled his voice to be as even as possible. He bit back a gasp as Haytham slipped behind him and palmed his crotch. He could feel the Templar's sadistic grin twist into the back of his neck accompanying a particularly pleasing rub. The Assassin rocked into the touch, clenching his eyes shut and biting his lip to keep from moaning.

"You sure…? It sounds like you two're brawling in there. If ya need a hand or a hook or an extra fist, we can jus-"

"I am fine! Let us settle this our own way!" Connor barked uncharacteristically. His father's hand was inside his breeches, stroking him and playing with the head of his cock.

Another pause of uncertainty. Then, "Yessir, we'll be preparing the rigging on the sails. Faulkner says there's a storm a'comin'."

"Yes, please see to it," Connor grunted. He waited until the footsteps of his crewmate receded before turning and shoving Haytham to the bed. The Native wasted no time making quick work of his boots and straddling his father's lap. He ground their hips together, making his breath hitch, as Haytham firmly gripped the back of Connor's head. His fingers twisted in the dark locks and he wrenched Connor's neck back.

Connor whimpered and then growled as he reached to the old scar adorning Haytham's side. He pressed on it hard, making the elder man wince and falter. It was enough for Connor to grip Haytham's wrists and lean close to his father's reddened, sensitive ear.

"I want to fuck you, Father…" he whispered huskily.

Oh_** hell**_ no. Haytham was having none of that.

The Templar bucked Connor off and switched their positions. "Never."

Connor frowned at his father. "Why not? I could physically overpower you!"

"Ha, not in this lifetime, Boy," Haytham sucked again on the space below Connor's ear, eliciting a slight whimper. "Besides, I have more experience." He licked at the shell of his son's ear, dipping his tongue into the soft folds as his hands undid Connor's breeches.

Connor wanted to ask whom Haytham had slept with, but it seemed like such a moot point now that his breeches were gone and Haytham was stroking his cock. Wait, when had his breeches been removed? Connor couldn't remember. His father's mouth was making dark, sensitive marks along his collarbone and Connor found himself kneading Haytham's lower back and hips. Whenever his hands strayed too low, near his father's arse, Haytham would bite him and give a deep, warning growl. Connor smirked.

Haytham sucked a trail of hickeys down his son's chest and firm, twitching stomach. He licked around his naval and nipped at his hipbone. Then, he pulled away with a frown.

"Hm?" Connor made a pathetic lusty noise, obviously questioning why Haytham had stopped.

"Spit won't be enough," Haytham husked, "Do you have oil here? Sword oil, perhaps?"

Connor made a face. He did have oil for his weapons, but it wasn't in the cabin at the moment. He rolled off of the bed and hobbled to his desk, his erection awkwardly bobbing with each step. A jar of bear grease was inside one of the drawers.

"This will do," he said, tossing it to Haytham.

The elder man caught it and looked it over skeptically. "I thought that this was for food."

"And sword oil is for weapons!" Connor replied crossly as he sat back on the bed. "Now what are you planning to do with it?"

Haytham blinked and then realized that Connor had no idea about the finer nuances of male-on-male sex. He grinned wickedly and pushed Connor onto his back again. "I'm going to make you scream my name, Boy…"

Connor was about to protest when Haytham took the tip of his erection into his mouth. The Native threw his head back so hard that it hit the headboard with a dull thud and he gasped at the new sensation. The wet heat was something that Connor had only wondered about, but he never thought that it would feel so good. The other sailors often spoke of their exploits at brothels and even though Connor never had anything to contribute, he still listened.

This was 'getting head'.

He bit his worried, swollen lip again as he tried to rock his hips into the inviting sensation. Haytham made a noise of irritation and pushed his son's hips back against the bed. Connor whined low in his throat as the Templar licked and sucked at his balls and up his shaft. His tongue dipped around the foreskin, gently pushing it back to reveal the dark, purpling head of his cock.

"Ff-ff…!" Connor tried to call out to his father, but he couldn't trust his voice. If he made too much noise, then the other crewmates might think that he's in trouble. Although his door was locked, they could still break it with enough force and being caught in such a compromising position with his Templar father would not bode well.

He settled for biting the back of his hand to muffle his moans. Haytham was pushing Connor's legs up and fondling his balls and licking delicious lines along the veins in Connor's cock.

"Hold your leg…" Haytham husked against Connor's twitching thigh. Connor only nodded dumbly and hooked his other arm around his knee so that it was hoisted high. It was so indecent! Connor blushed as he felt Haytham prodding at his ass with a finger that was too slick to be from saliva.

He felt the digit slide into him and he gave a small shout of protest around his hand. The protest immediately died on his lips as Haytham took the opportunity to suck Connor's full length into his mouth. He jerked and uncovered his mouth to tangle in Haytham's hair. Although he could still feel the uncomfortable finger wriggling and thrusting in and out of his body, it seemed only a minor inconvenience next to the mind-blowing pleasure wrapped around his dick.

Connor glanced down at the sight before him. Haytham's brows were furrowed and his eyes closed in concentration. And his lips, oh Spirits, his lips never looked so inviting before. They were slick with spit and swollen and wrapped around his cock in a lovely contrast of pale skin on dark. Haytham was sucking Connor off. Haytham , the Grandmaster Templar of the Colonies, was sucking his son's dick.

Connor groaned and his breath hitched. The finger –fingers? When did Haytham slip the other ones in?—found a spot inside of his body that made lightning shoot up his spine. A flash of white blurred his vision as he made a pathetic keen. He felt the urge to come fill his belly with a tight ball of fire. His toes curled and he waited for the waves of pleasure to wash over him, but they did not. He whined deep in his throat and glanced down again. Haytham's other hand was wrapped firmly—no, tightly—around the base of his cock, denying orgasm completely.

Connor growled and bucked his hips in protest, but Haytham pulled his mouth away with a wet pop and grinned wickedly. With a snarl of frustration, Connor grabbed the back of Haytham's head and yanked him up. He tried to kiss him, tried to shove his lips upon the Templar's, but Haytham turned his head to the side and licked along Connor's jawline instead. The Assassin tried to buck his aching erection into Haytham's hips, but the elder man kept his pelvis just out of reach.

"Finish it or I will do it myself…" Connor threatened lowly. He tried to grab Haytham's head again, but he only succeeded in pulling out the red leather tying the ponytail back. Disheveled graying hair framed Haytham's face as he gripped Connor's wrist and took the hair tie from him.

"Behave or you get nothing," Haytham retorted. He quickly spread Connor's legs and tied the red leather band around the base of Connor's cock. The Assassin gave a frustrated wiggle as Haytham rubbed his thumb against the head of Connor's wet erection, eliciting another delicious gasp.

"F-father…!" he whined quietly.

Haytham put a finger to Connor's lips, shushing him. "Do not call me that, not while we do…this. Understood?"

Connor nodded and tentatively licked the offered digit. Haytham's eyebrows quirked as he watched his son lewdly suck on his finger, mimicking fellatio to appease the Templar.

Haytham smirked and pulled his finger free. Trailing it down Connor's cheek, he leaned close. "I'm going to fuck you, Boy…"

Part of Connor didn't like the sound of that idea, but the part of him drunk with lust eagerly agreed. He knew how men and women had sex—Achilles had taught him about the birds and the bees—and he figured that sex with a man was probably similar. He felt a flutter of fear in his chest, warning him against such disgusting, incestuous sodomy, but he was also excited. He wanted this, even if it was wrong.

So when Haytham finally removed his own breeches, releasing his straining cock with a satisfied groan, Connor didn't mind as his knees were hiked up. He didn't mind the hot, thick head of his father's cock pressing against his ass as his cheeks were spread. At least, he didn't mind until the pain kicked in.

He winced, tightening, and jerked his body. "H-hurts!" he said in his Mohawk tongue.

Even though Haytham didn't know what that word meant, he knew the tone. He stilled, ignoring the urge to slam inside of the tight body, and gently petted Connor's sides. "Hush, relax," he whispered. When he was certain that Connor wouldn't try to strangle him, he pushed in again. This time, Connor took him to the hilt with uneven breaths and white knuckles tangled in the sheets.

"Fuck…I said relax!" Haytham snarled lowly, rocking his hips just barely against Connor.

The Assassin gasped and tried again. It hurt, yes, but there was a promise to Haytham's words that made him want to relax. He wanted this. He wanted to be fucked by his Father, his flesh and blood.

Connor groaned again and Haytham took that as a sign to start moving. He was nearly trembling with the effort of holding back. But tearing Connor wouldn't be good. He had to take it slow and easy, to get the boy accustomed to the feeling of a dick lodged in his arse.

Finally, he pulled his hips back, making Connor's breath hitch, and pushed in hard. Connor gasped, back arching at the sensation. Haytham grinned and fucked his son, his greased dick sliding more and more fluidly in and out of Connor's willing hole. He leaned over the Native Assassin and licked his ear again.

"Feels like you're sucking me in… Do you like this? My cock in your hole?" he husked, pushing his boundaries.

Connor growled and clawed at Haytham's back. "F-fuck…fuck me…" he demanded.

Heh, kinky little thing.

Haytham worried the tender flesh of Connor's neck as the native clung to his shoulders and back, legs wrapped firmly around his waist. He angled his thrusts, trying to reach for that spot that would make the Assassin unravel in his arms. It took a few tries, a few thrusts, and Connor had to muffle his cry in Haytham's shoulder. The boy wasn't particularly loud, unfortunately, but Haytham relished every noise he could wring out of the poor Assassin. He angled again, determined to hit Connor's prostate until it drove the boy mad.

"F-fath-!"

Haytham cut him off with a particularly hard thrust, one that made Connor jerk in a blend of pain and pleasure.

"No, use my…use my name…" Haytham demanded as sweat dripped down his brow.

Connor shook his head, words failing him as his hip bucked in time to Haytham's thrusts.

"Say it…" he urged, gripping onto one of Connor's hips hard enough to bruise.

"H-h!" the Assassin tried. His face was flushed and his cries of pleasures were sounding more and more like broken sobs by the second. "Hay-!"

Haytham reached down between them, pet the twitching bulbous tip of Connor's dick, and untied the string.

Connor's entire body immediately went rigid. His nails dug half-moon patterns into Haytham's back and he clenched almost painfully around his father's dick.

"H-Haytham!" he cried hoarsely as he orgasmed.

The Templar barely held himself together as Connor came. As soon as the boy sagged against him, his seed spilled between their bellies, Haytham lost all rhythm as he thrust with abandon into the wet heat.

With a muffled curse, he pushed himself balls deep into his son and came.

Connor made a slight face at the hot semen spurting erratically inside of him, but he was too sated to protest, much less move for a moment.

Haytham's arms were trembling just slightly as he pulled out with a slick squelch and rolled to the side.

The Templar's lips quirked into a satisfied smirk. "I told you…I would make you scream my name…"

* * *

**Back at camp**

Connor raised his hand to his flushed face. His fingers were sticky with semen and his body felt abnormally lax. He rolled over to gather a handkerchief from one of his traveling pouches and wiped his hand and belly. He held his breath for a moment and listened to the environment around him. The fire had gone down, but it was still crackling with warmth and his horse was still asleep with even breaths. No one had heard him making such lewd, indecent noises, had they? Of course not. There was no one this far out into the wilderness but him. Just in case, he poked his head out of his tent and used his Eagle Sense to try and locate a spy. Nope, no one. He scoffed at his own paranoia and crawled back into the tent. But, sated as he was, sleep would still not come.

The next day, Connor packed up his camp before dawn and moved on. He could still see Haytham's trail through the lands, faint as they were. Connor had at least a two day's ride to catch up to him. It wasn't until late afternoon, as Connor was sitting back and enjoying a light lunch, when he came in contact with another person. He heard the hoofbeats first and quickly pulled his grazing horse under some trees and climbed into the branches. Even though it was unlikely that a Templar could find him out here, Connor would rather be safe than sorry.

A warrior, Chickamuaga Cherokee by the looks of it, rode into view. He looked about as if puzzled. Curious, Connor used his Eagle Sense on the Cherokee man. He didn't glow at all, either red or blue.

Connor crept out of the tree. "Are you following me?" he asked in Mohawk.

The Cherokee warrior quickly wheeled his horse about, making the creature whinny in protest. He reached for the rifle by his side, but then relaxed. An expression of blatant irritation crossed the man's face as he tried to calm his steed.

"Yes. My Chief has decided a task for you to repay him with," he said in his own dialect.

Connor gave a stiff nod in the man's direction. "What is it?"

"Come with me and I will show you," the Cherokee man said.

Connor frowned in frustration. "I am not in the mood for games. Tell me what he wants of me first."

The warrior's nostrils flared. "I don't have to."

"Then I decline. I will not agree to a favor that I know nothing about, spoken from someone that I do not recognize."

The warrior's hands tightened on the reins and for a moment, Connor thought that he might attack. But he did not. Instead, he took a deep, steadying breath and tried again. "I am called Badger, second youngest brother to Dragging Canoe," his voice was strained with the effort of keeping calm. "There is a group of white men preparing to attack us from one of their forts. They are well armed and have copious ammunition. We need you to stop them."

"I already told your Chief that I will not kill for him," Connor said lowly.

"He is aware of that," Badger gave a dismissive wave. "He wants you to confiscate their weapons. A wolf is not so fierce without his teeth."

Connor thought about the offer for a moment, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He wanted to help his fellow Natives, even if he didn't agree to their methods. And if he could do that without killing any Colonists, then it might be worth the time. He gave a wary nod and fetched his horse.

They rode until nightfall, only stopping to allow their horses a moment to rest, until they reached the outskirts of the fort. Hidden in the nearby foliage, Connor quickly did reconnaissance, and returned to Badger's side.

"I have located their arsenal and powder store," Connor told him.

"Then I'll make a distraction while you get the weapons," Badger began, but Connor cut him off with a firm stare.

"No. If you antagonize them, then they will mobilize. I will do this alone," Connor's tone left no room for argument.

"No man is capable of taking down a fort on his own!" Badger sneered. Connor simply smirked.

"If your Chief did not think me capable on my own, then why would he send me on this mission?"

The Chickamuaga warrior raised his lip to argue, but merely huffed instead. "Then I will bring carts and reinforcements. When you send the signal, we will be ready to load up the confiscated goods."

Connor nodded and wasted no more time. It was late at night and the darkness would provide ample cover. He still had a handful of non-lethal poison darts, courtesy of Aveline, that he fired to knock out guards from a distance. Making a beeline to the gunpowder store, he picked the lock and stole one of the barrels out.

There was a massive amount of weapons stored in another shed. He only set the powder keg down long enough to pick that lock as well, and then rolled the barrel inside.

"Oi, who left this door open?" a guard suddenly perked Connor's attention. The Native immediately took to the shadows as a patrolman began walking over with a lantern. The man was too close! If Connor blew the keg now, then the man would be caught in the explosion!

The Assassin picked up a rock and threw it far away. The guard blinked, set down his lantern, and moved towards the sound instead. Connor breathed a sigh of relief and moved a safe distance away before firing his pistol at the powder keg.

The explosion rocked the ground and made Connor's ears ring. He closed his eyes against the flash and quickly hid as guards rushed to the destroyed weapon store. People were yelling for water and trying to throw dirt on the flames before it reached the other buildings. Quickly, he repeated the process for the powder store.

The guardsmen began splitting into groups. Some of them were trying to put out the flames while the others were ramping up security along the perimeter.

"We're under attack! Block the exits!" someone yelled in the chaos. It was time for Connor to leave. But as he was creeping away, he heard another cry. "SAVAGES! WE'RE UNDER ATTA-!" the call was cut short by a bullet to the chest as the man fell.

Connor cursed under his breath and turned around. He could hear Dragging Canoe's warriors outside the wall, shouting in Cherokee and shooting at the perimeter guardsmen. It sounded as if there was a healthy amount of men, but nothing that could break down the fort walls or gate. Connor took solace in that knowledge and swept about the inner perimeter.

He wouldn't kill these men, but that didn't mean that he couldn't' knock them out before they were shot to death. He crept up behind them one by one, using the chaos to his advantage, and knocked them unconscious until only a handful remained.

The small group rallied together and finally located Connor.

"Don't move! We'll shoot, you damn savage!" one of them yelled to Connor. The Native held up in hands briefly and then put a finger to his lips.

"Quiet. I am not your enemy," he tried. One of the men fired at him and Connor was glad for Captain Kidd's ring. The faint shield shimmered in the air as the bullet bounced off harmlessly. The guards' eyes widened as they shook like a group of fawns.

"Oh God, oh Lord Christ almighty! He's got some sort of devil power!" one of them whimpered.

Connor all but rolled his eyes. "Stay here and keep quiet. Hide if you must, but do not approach the perimeter."

"What are you going to do…?" one of them asked tentatively.

"I am going to ask them to leave," Connor replied. He took a step backwards, almost certain that they would fire on him as soon as his back was turned. But they did no such thing. Instead, the guards dropped their weapons and ran.

Connor snuck out of the fort the same way that he climbed in and rejoined with the Native forces on the ground. There were far more warriors present than was necessary for basic reinforcement. Most of them were trying to bring the gate down. He spotted Dragging Canoe and stomped up to him.

"There is no reason to have this many forces here," he confronted.

Dragging Canoe sneered at the Mohawk. "You're a fool. If we don't show our might, then the white devils will continue encroaching on our land. Do you have the weapons prepared for transport?"

Connor smiled bitterly. "No. I destroyed them all."

Dragging Canoe turned on Connor. "WHAT?! I told you to confiscate them! The white devils cannot have so many armaments!"

"Destroying the weapons was better. Now you cannot have them either," Connor said. "There are better ways to communicate with the Colonists than killing them. Such violence only breeds more hatred and resentment."

"Oh, are you giving me a philosophy lesson now? You're a warrior who's spilled his fair share of blood and you're lecturing me?" Dragging Canoe sneered. "In case you haven't noticed, I have no interest in merely 'communicating' with the devils. I want to annihilate them. They've taken everything that we had! They've taken our families and our lands and you want me to play nice with them!? How laughable! I daresay you're touched in the head!"

"And what would you do if you did manage to take back your lands?!"

Dragging Canoe sneered again. "I would kill every white devil within a hundred miles. I would bathe in their blood and make the rest repent for their brother's mistakes by putting them to work in my fields! I could control the entire land and mold it into something that can respect our culture and our kind! Anyone opposing me would fall to my forces!"

"So you would become a tyrant and make others live in fear of you?" Connor wrinkled his nose in disgust. "You are not fit to be called a Chief."

Dragging Canoe rounded on Connor with his war club. The Assassin ducked and dodged.

"I implore you to rethink your strategy!" Connor ducked again, determined not to draw his weapon. "All you are doing is encouraging more violence and bloodshed!"

"Silence! You're an idealistic child! So you've killed a few men, have you!? But you're still soft and weak! You failed your own clan! They lost their lands and warriors to Colonist bullets and now you want us to seek the same fate! It's no wonder that you're chasing a white man across the country! You probably love him more than your own kind!"

For a moment, Connor saw red. He drew his short sword and lunged at Dragging Canoe. A few of the surrounding Cherokees fired bullets at the Assassin, but they bounced off of his shield as he knocked the Chief's war club from his hand. He shouldered the warrior hard, knocking him to the ground, and held the point of his blade to the Cherokee's throat.

"You cannot build a functional society on your ideals. Please, I beg you, change them before it is too late," Connor pleaded, barely containing his rage.

Dragging Canoe glared pure hatred at the Assassin. "You love white skin so much, Ratonhnhaké:ton? Then it's good that I sent a hunting party after the devil you're chasing. They'll be upon him within a day and they'll rend the flesh from his bones. And when they bring me his head, I will mount it especially for you."

Connor snarled and barely repressed the urge to split Dragging Canoe's neck open. Instead, he threw down a smoke bomb and ran from the area. As tempting as it was to kill the Cherokee man, he knew that it would mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. Besides, he had to find Haytham. The man was days ahead of him and now he was in danger.

Dragging Canoe rose irritably. Some of his warriors stood by his side, awaiting orders.

The Chieftain sneered, his nostrils flaring and his lip curling past his teeth.

"Kill him."


	9. Chapter 8

Connor knew that the Shard of Eden around his finger wouldn't protect him forever. It only seemed to have a limited lifespan when activated before it would fall dormant again. He could probably only allow it to deflect a few more bullets before it would run out of power.

A bullet whizzed past his hood, nearly grazing his cheek. No, he was out of time now.

Connor spurred his horse on. The poor thing was already frazzled and tired, and now it was scared as well. While it had no problem running, it didn't want to be steered.

Connor turned and fired his pistol at the oncoming patrol. Another warrior toppled off of his horse with a short scream. Dammit! He didn't have time for this! He steered his horse into a small thicket of trees, risking bad footing for hopefully losing the Natives behind him.

Another gunshot echoed in his ears and his horse gave a cry of agony as she went down. He felt the shift in gravity and leaped for the nearest tree before he could be taken with it. He swung himself up into the branches and used a rope dart on an incoming enemy. Connor used his weight as a pulley to drag the Cherokee warrior into the boughs and as he came down, he kicked another hard enough to send him flying off his horse.

The remaining few shot at him and he rolled nimbly to the side, feeling the lead breeze past him. The warriors didn't have time to reload again, so they leapt from their horses and drew their melee weapons, a mixture of spears and tomahawks.

Connor held his short sword in one hand and the tomahawk in his other. He didn't want to kill these men, but if they honestly believed what Dragging Canoe's idea of justice was right, then he didn't know if they would listen to reason. Still, he had to try.

"Turn back! I do not want to kill you!" he called.

The warriors did not heed his warning, so it was with a heavy heart that Connor cut them down one by one. One screamed as his belly was opened and his entrails poured out. Another's skull caved in like a melon as Connor's tomahawk chopped into it. A sliced throat, a broken neck, a severed spine, and a crushed head soon followed.

Connor was not proud of his victory, as he stood over the dead bodies, his robes splattered with blood. He had wanted to save them; he had wanted to help them! But they chose to fight instead and Connor couldn't win against them without lethal means. He wiped his blades on the grass and sheathed them.

Off to the side, his own horse was still crying and struggling to stand. When she fell, her back leg had broken and the bullet hole in her flank was still oozing steadily. He moved over to her besieged, magnificent body, and gently shushed her as he pet her neck. It did little to ease the skittish thing as her soulful eyes rolled in their sockets.

"I am sorry, girl. May the Spirits guide you," he whispered, his voice caught in his throat. He fired a bullet into her skull to end her suffering.

With his heart feeling like a bag of rocks, Connor gathered up the necessary supplies to continue and caught one of the horses that the Cherokee had been riding. It was a strong steed, one that was well-conditioned and maintained. He mounted it, cast one more look at the carnage behind him, and used his Eagle Sense to follow his father's trail. If he rode hard enough, then he might be able to catch up before the Chickamuaga got to Haytham first.

* * *

Connor rode through the day and night, keeping his Eagle Sense activated for the entire trip. He had to. If he blinked back to his normal vision, then he might miss the crucial moment that marked Haytham's ambush. He might lose the trail and Haytham might die (again) because of his carelessness. Even though fatigue crept at the corners of his mind and his limbs felt oddly heavy, he couldn't stop. There wasn't time to stop. Even his horse kept protesting to the breakneck journey. At least the animal was conditioned for this; most other horses would not be able to keep the pace for half as long.

Finally, Connor's second sight caught flashes of red lying in the grass, motionless. He slowed into a trot. The bodies weren't moving. Was the battle already concluded? He dismounted, stumbled on shaky legs, and edged into the battlefield.

Corpses littered the ground. They had been dead, all of them, for at least several hours. As much as Connor didn't want to switch back to his normal vision, he knew that he had to. He couldn't see the corpses' faces. He needed to see them, to be certain that none of them was Haytham.

He blinked back and was immediately assaulted with another migraine. There was sunlight (when did the sun rise?) that burned his retinas and the world was suddenly colorful again rather than the mishmash of blues and whites. Dammit, he had overexerted himself again. But as he peered through the pain and the onslaught of light, he could better see the bodies on the grass.

They were an even mix of white men and Chickamuaga Cherokees. Connor stooped down and looked at one of the Colonists. He wrinkled his nose at the stylized red crosses on their fingers and embroidered on their waistcoat hems. Templars. The Assassin edged about the bodies, trying to piece together the battle from various clues.

It looked like the Chickamuaga hunters had caught up to Haytham, but apparently, so did the Templars. The two factions probably clashed—after all, the Chickamuaga wasn't the type to let any white man walk away without a pound or two of flesh. And Haytham… Haytham escaped—probably in the chaos of swinging blades and thundering guns. Connor smiled to himself. Haytham was probably still alive and hopefully uninjured.

Connor mounted his horse again, much to the steed's resentment, and blinked back to his Eagle Sense. The world turned a cool blue and white once more as he focused on Haytham's trail. It wasn't until mid-afternoon that his horse finally stopped, too exhausted to run any further. Connor snarled and cursed and tried to make the poor animal keep moving, but the horse was rightfully stubborn and only tried to rear its rider off.

"MOVE!" he yelled in Mohawk. He knew that the sad thing was probably more exhausted than he felt, but his mind was desperate. Haytham was so close, yet still so far. What if he was injured? What if he was bleeding out somewhere and Connor was going to be too late to save him? Connor didn't trust his legs enough to finish the journey on foot, but he would if he needed to.

The Assassin was so absorbed in trying to motivate his steed, that he didn't notice the man in a nearby tree. In fact, Connor almost didn't hear the click of the hammer on his gun until it was almost too late.

Connor looked up just as the man pulled the trigger and he barely ducked under the bullet aimed for his head. His horse reared up, startled, and Connor toppled off unceremoniously. His foot was caught in the stirrup, twisting his ankle. The horse began to run and with a defiant shout, Connor wrenched his foot free before he was either trampled to death or dragged across the frontier.

The Assassin scrambled through the grass, trying to keep a low profile as he ran for cover. Another bullet landed in the dirt where he had just been standing. He glanced up at the trees and screwed up his eyes at his attacker. It was a man who glowed blue.

"Stop shooting! I am not your enemy!" he shouted up to the fellow.

"Prove it, Heathen! You ride a Chickamuaga Horse!" the man yelled down the barrel of his rifle.

"I stole it!" Connor tried. He blinked his vision back to normal, gritting his teeth against the pain of his migraine.

"Nice story, try again!" the man yelled as he fired once more.

Again, Connor moved behind a tree just as bits of bark flew off of the trunk. Obviously, arguing wasn't going to accomplish anything. But the man was a sharpshooter and Connor couldn't get lucky for much longer. He had to try another tactic.

The man in the tree stared down the barrel of his rifle, keeping his focus keen on the tree that the Native had just hidden behind. He didn't hear any movement, and his ears were nearly as good as his eyes. The Native was probably biding his time to plan an escape route, but there wasn't anywhere for him to escape so long as the sharpshooter held the high ground.

"Come out so I can shoot a hole in your head, already!" the rifleman mocked. Only a few birds answered him.

Then, there was movement behind him, in the tree! How did the savage climb the tree without him noticing!? The sharpshooter tried to wheel around on the branch, but he only turned partway before the Native barreled into him with a determined roar. The rifleman fell hard on his back, the wind knocked out of him by the heavy weight. He gasped and tried to smash his attacker's face with the butt of his gun, but the Native caught his wrist.

"Please stop fighting! I will not hurt you!" Connor all but pleaded.

The sharpshooter struggled to get out from under Connor's bulk, but the Assassin wrenched his rifle out of his hand and rolled off. He threw the gun to the side as the sharpshooter, a man clad in a long, sweeping brown coat, stood. The stranger put up his fists to fight and Connor rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Please, stop," Connor held his hands up in surrender.

The man faltered. "Who are you, if you're not Chickamuaga?" He looked Connor over and spotted Connor's belt buckle. He lowered his fists, eyes wary, as he spoke slowly. "We work in the darkness…"

Connor smiled. "To serve the light," he finished.

The tension between them evaporated as the two Assassins clasped hands with their ring finger tucked.

"Sorry for shootin' at you. Thought you were one of them scalpers—er, um, Natives, um… Sorry?" the man said sheepishly. "I'm Caleb, Caleb Garret."

Connor dismissed the comment. "I am Connor."

Caleb seemed to think hard about that name for a moment before the realization spread over his face. "Connor? As in, Connor Davenport of the Assassins? As in the Mentor-of -the-Colonial-Brotherhood-Connor?"

The Native Assassin nodded self-consciously and an awkward silence followed. Caleb looked as if he didn't know how to address the Mentor. The two shifted their weight from foot to foot.

"Well…uh, nice to meet you, Mentor?" Caleb tried. "No offense, but you look like shit that's been left in the sun. I thought you'd be more…lively?"

Connor sighed. "It is a pleasure to meet you, I am sure." He brushed aside the Sharpshooter and began trekking after his horse. The animal was grazing in the shade, panic forgotten over hunger. "It is imperative that I continue my journey immediately."

Caleb jogged after Connor, looping his rifle back onto his back. "What's your journey all about? Maybe I can help."

"I am searching for someone—a British man that is hunted by Templars," Connor grunted, fatigue wearing on his mind. Perhaps another pair of eyes wouldn't be a bad thing.

"Oh, is he a pompous asshole in a tricorn hat?"

Connor's attention jerked to the Sharpshooter. "Then he is alive! Did you meet him? Tell me where he is? Is he injured?"

"Oh, I met him alright. I came across some British bloke back at the trading post up yonder. He stole my damn horse, the rotten bastard," Caleb spat bitterly. "I've been hunting on foot all day, hoping to get me some pelts to sell so I can buy another horse. Earlier, I came across some guys talking about needing to find someone, some traitor. I didn't know they were Templars though, else I would've greeted them with a bullet."

Connor's mind raced as he tried to process the information. "Then…then he is alive. I must find him! Do you know where he was headed from the trading post? How many Templars were pursuing him?

"Dunno where the guy was goin', but there were about a half dozen men lookin' for him," Caleb shrugged.

Connor took up the reins of his horse again. The animal neighed in protest and shook the Native off with ease.

"It doesn't look like he's gonna be taking you anywhere for a while," Caleb suggested. "Though maybe that's for the best. You really do look like hell, Sir."

"That is irrelevant," Connor stopped trying to budge his horse and dug through his saddlebags instead. He began strapping weapons and light provisions to his belts. "I can always continue on foot."

Caleb stepped in front of the Native. When Connor tried to move around him, Caleb blocked him again.

"Sir, it doesn't matter if you're a Mentor or not, you're still human," Caleb frowned. "You need to rest. I know exhaustion when I see it and you're not gonna do yourself any favors if you keep pushing. Even if you do find this guy, who's to say that you'll be in any shape to help him?"

Connor glared at the Sharpshooter. It had only been three nights since he slept! He could keep going! But as he was about to protest, he felt his shoulders sag in resignation. Caleb was right. Connor was in poor shape and he needed at least a night's worth of sleep.

"How far is the trading post?" Connor asked, defeated.

"Not far, just a few miles."

Connor nodded and after letting his horse rest for a few minutes more, he stripped it of the blankets and makeshift saddle and tried to walk it along on foot. The animal was much more agreeable without a rider. They walked slower than Connor would've liked, but the old scar on his side was bothering him, making him limp along like an old man.

"So this guy you're chasing must be pretty important, huh?" Caleb tried to start conversation.

Connor grunted. "Yes. As far as I know, he was a Templar, but he betrayed the Order. He has been traveling across the frontier, killing Templar leaders, and keeping some sort of vital information from them."

"This could be a trap—a wild goose chase," Caleb said.

"I know," Connor nodded. "But I must find him all the same. He has worked alongside Assassins on more than one occasion, so in the event that he is truly a traitor, then we may be able to convert him to our cause. If the information he holds is valuable enough for Templars to use their meager resources to pursue him, then it may benefit us."

Caleb looked at Connor's face for a moment. "And if it's all an elaborate trap?"

"Then I will kill him again."

"Again?" Caleb asked, surprised. "What do you mean?"

Connor merely waved his hand dismissively. "Nothing. A slip of the tongue." After all, while Connor wanted to believe that the Templar Traitor was Haytham, he still didn't know for certain.

The Sharpshooter gave Connor a wary glance before changing the subject. "So why were you riding a Chickamuaga horse again?"

Connor chuckled despite himself and told Caleb of his dealings with the rogue Cherokee tribe. Once he was done, Caleb shook his head despite himself.

"Well lucky for you, I've got permission from the rest of the Cherokee to travel on their lands, so you won't need to go appealing to anymore psychotic War Chiefs for a while."

"Dragging Canoe is not psychotic, only…misled," Connor countered. "I had hoped that I could make him understand that his path of violence is wrong."

"Sir, you can't just _make_ people change their minds about things, yanno," Caleb offered. "Understanding that is what makes us Assassins."

Connor glared in offense. "Are you accusing me of thinking like a Templar?"

Caleb seemed to think about that for a moment. "…No. Templars don't think about saving people so much as they do about controlling them. And the people that don't wanna be controlled get shot down…or burned alive," he said bitterly.

Connor hid his wince under his hood. Haytham had spoken of his Templar ideals as if had been trying to save people. And what good had it done? Connor's mother still burned because Colonists refused to honor the rights of other human beings. Haytham hadn't been able to save anyone because he had been going about it the wrong way, _the Templar way_.

"I do not want people to conform their beliefs to my own. I only wish that they would…that they would help each other rather than constantly warring and squabbling like children," Connor said.

"So you wanna save them from themselves?"

Connor sighed, thought about it, and nodded. "In a manner of speaking."

"Sir, you can't save everyone. You can only help those who are willing to accept the salvation you offer."

"And you speak from experience?"

Caleb grinned, wide and broad. "Yeah, but I've never saved anyone like that, admittedly. Sure, I've protected the roadways in some places—I've got posts of our Brothers set up. But I've never really like…SAVED anyone, you know? I've only been on the other end of that."

Connor raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Yeah, it was a while back. A French Assassin, William de Saint-Prix, helped me out after some Templars killed all my friends. He's the one who inducted me into the Brotherhood, yanno. I already knew all a guy could know about guns, but he helped me…I dunno, deal with it, I guess. In fact, I'm traveling to go meet up with him again. It's been a few years, so I figured that it was due time for a visit."

"I remember that name. He is a fine Assassin who works along the outskirts of Boston," Connor supplied.

"Yep, the very one. But even though he's expecting me, I suppose that I could help you out for a bit, too. He shouldn't be too pissed that I stopped to assist the Mentor of our Brotherhood, after all," Caleb suggested.

Connor shrugged, thinking the over the offer. "If you would rather meet your friend, then please by all means, continue your own travels. You do not need to stop on my behalf."

"You seem like you don't want help finding this Templar fellow," the sharpshooter observed.

Silence spread between them like a block of ice before Connor broke it again. "The Templar Traitor could be the former Grandmaster Templar."

Caleb obviously wasn't expecting that response. He blinked in surprise and waved his hands in front of his face. "Wait a minute, wait a minute! I thought that you killed the Grandmaster."

"I did. At least, I thought that I did. Now, I am uncertain."

"Okay, so now I understand why you wanna go this alone. But if he's really the former Grandmaster, isn't that more reason to have some help? It'll be too dangerous alone, especially if he's gone off his rocker and is killing his own people."

"It's…complicated…" Connor said, unwilling to provide more personal information than that. He knew that telling Caleb about his suspicions was unwise, but it felt good to voice his concerns. It sounded much more rational and less absurd when he said it out loud. So it's possible that the Grandmaster Templar could still be alive. After all, unexpected truths were part of their Creed.

"Well like it or not, Mentor, I'm gonna follow you. I know that's disrespectful and all, but there's no way I'm gonna let you take on this Templar Traitor alone. If he's nuts, then you'll need help fightin' him. And if he's not nuts, then you'll still need help fending off the other Templars trying to kill him. Either way, Sir, you're not going to get rid of me," Caleb puffed his chest a little, his mouth set in a determined line.

Connor rubbed his temple for a moment, and then smiled to his new companion. "If we are going to be traveling together, then please, call me Connor."

* * *

**June 23, 1784**

The steady drumbeat of a convoy echoed across the rolling hills. It was heavily guarded, and for the Templars to spare such an amount of people, the cargo must be important. Although Connor would rather be putting his efforts into finding his Father, he couldn't ignore the Templar movement in his wake.

For the past few weeks, Caleb had caught Connor up to speed with recent events. Apparently, one of the reasons that the Natives were being so belligerent was because Britain finally pulled out their troops and North Carolina tried to cede the territory to the fledgling United States Congress. Congress still hadn't taken responsibility for the territory, and there wasn't any guarantee that they would. That left several hundred miles of land for the Natives and Colonists to fight over, with no mediator in sight. At least both sides were weakened. The Natives had lost their British support shortly before the Colonists lost North Carolina's proprietorship.

While Connor didn't care to embroil himself in politics at the moment, he understood what that meant for him; The Templars were mobilizing. They were going to take advantage of the Colonists' power vacuum and take the land for themselves, much like how they tried to do in Florida.

Templars, there were always Templars.

Throughout his journey from the Mississippi, the amount of Templars he saw he could count on one hand. But as soon as he passed into North Carolina, they were everywhere, crawling out of the woodwork like termites and making it difficult to move around unnoticed. Connor caught wind of the new Templar Grandmaster staying in town and he made a mental note to take care of him before he became a real threat. They were already transporting weapons from location to location in convoys.

Connor heard a low bird call—a signal from Caleb.

He leaped out from the bushes, pistol firing at an unsuspecting Templar as he rounded on another with his tomahawk swishing through the air in deadly, magnificent arcs. Caleb provided him support from a distance. In the past few weeks, Connor had come to truly appreciate his friend's impeccable aim. It was only comparable to Clipper's skill with firearms.

The Templars were ready for a fight, but Connor was certain that they hadn't expected the Mentor of the Brotherhood of all people. The battle was quick and dirty and the Templars fell one by one. After Connor wiped his bloody tomahawk in the grass, he finally checked the cargo. It was weapons, lots of weapons.

He began rummaging through the goods as Caleb jogged up when he heard movement. Immediately, Connor tucked a knife in his hand and Caleb leveled his pistol. There was someone in the cargo.

"Show yourself now," Connor ordered.

He thought about using his Eagle Sense to try and peer into the mess, but overuse of his second sight had been giving him migraines lately. Caleb had convinced him to cease using his gift for a few days and for once, Connor readily agreed. He had exerted his eyes and they were still recovering.

Hesitant movement came from behind a few crates of guns. Then, a hand peeked out from the edge, open palmed and shaking slightly.

"D-don't shoot! I'm coming out!" a boy said. The other hand appeared as well as a sign of good gesture as a boy, too old to really be called a boy but still too young to be a man, slowly edged out from behind the crates. His eyes were wide with trepidation and his long, dark hair was filthy and barely tied back in a ponytail.

"Who are you? Why are you here?" Connor asked.

"I'm just a stowaway! I couldn't afford passage, so I crawled inside this convoy!" the boy all but pleaded.

Connor narrowed his eyes. He knew a lie when he heard one, even if they were lies that he wanted to believe.

"Tell me the truth," Connor called him out on it.

The boy froze for a moment.

"Get out," Caleb ordered, motioning with his pistol. If the Sharpshooter had to fire a round into the convoy, then there was a chance that it could blow. They still didn't know how much gunpowder was stored under the weapons.

The boy slowly and carefully climbed out of the wagon, his hands still raised in the air. A small bag was looped around his waist and a worn, leather bound journal fell out. He made a noise and hesitated as if to pick it up, but the click of the hammer on Caleb's pistol was enough warning to forgo the notion. Either the convoy must have been traveling for some time or the boy was terrified that Caleb would shoot because his legs were shaky as a newborn deer and he was pale as a sheet. He stumbled and fell over the edge of the wagon with a short cry and Connor caught him easily around the chest. The Assassin was about to hoist the boy back up before he froze.

Connor's brain shorted out. It completely ceased functioning for seconds that felt like an eternity.

The boy's chest…it was…not a boy's chest…

With a small, strangled sound, Connor immediately dropped the stranger in the dirt as if he had been burned.

"Uh, my deepest apologies! I didn't mean to—I was trying to help and I—It wasn't my intention to touch you there, Ma'am!" Connor stuttered hopelessly.

Caleb looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "…You didn't know that was a girl?"

Connor frowned at his friend, his dark cheeks flushed in embarrassment. He opened his mouth, but he was at a loss for what to say, so he merely shook his head.

Meanwhile, the young woman climbed back to her shaky feet. "It's okay, really. I mean… I'm dressed like a boy. People are supposed to think that I'm a boy. It's a disguise," she said with a small pout. She raised her hands in the air again, a faint blush appearing on her face. Her breasts were likely bound, but now that Connor knew that the stranger was a young woman, he couldn't _unsee_ her more feminine features. Her jawline was too narrow and her eyelashes too long to belong to a man. And of course, even though the baggy waistcoat and breeches hid her figure well, Connor had felt her chest.

"My name's Mallow. At least…that's what all my friends call me," she said.

Connor composed himself once more and tried to steer his brain back on track. "I am called Connor. Why are you here? And why are you pretending to be a boy?" he asked.

She looked uncomfortable for a moment, clearly trying to decide what to say. "I…I was traveling and…and I was helping a friend."

Both Assassins glanced at each other, not entirely certain what part of that statement was true and what was false.

"Who is your friend?" Caleb asked slowly.

"None of your business," she pouted.

Connor sighed and picked up the fallen journal. He didn't have time for this. "Leave. Now. And don't return."

Mallow made a panicked noise as she reached out for the journal. Connor snatched it away upon instinct and raised an eyebrow.

"Give that back! That's not yours!" she huffed, clearly struggling between lunging for the journal and staying still.

Connor flipped open the cover and his eyes momentarily widened in shock. The name on the inside… it was…

"This is not your journal, either," Connor said lowly, under his breath. He thought that maybe it was a forgery, but no, he knew that handwriting. The Native had spent too many nights staying up well into the morning, reading and re-reading his father's journal. This was his. This was the journal that Gillian McCarthy and Matthew Davenport had been seeking.

A sudden savage anger filled him and his brows creased deeply. "Explain yourself," he said lowly, dangerously. "Why do you have this?" Was Haytham already killed? Did the Templars get him?

Mallow inhaled sharply at the tone and backed away from Connor, moving closer to the pistol aimed at her head. "…I'm not a Templar, but I'm not an Assassin either, if that's what you're asking…" she started.

Connor frowned at her. He briefly tried to use his Eagle Sense to see her allegiance, but as soon as he tried to blink the world into the hues of blue and white, another migraine lit a fire behind his eye sockets. He winced as the colors of the world distorted and then returned to his own vision.

"I want an explanation. _Now._" he growled.

Her nostrils flared as if she could smell the danger. "What guarantee do I have that you won't kill me?"

"Talk, Girlie!" Caleb interjected. "We're tired of your bullshit and if he won't pull the answers out of your hide while you're kickin' and screamin', then **I** sure will!"

She thought it over for a moment more, perspiration beading on her brow as she licked her dry lips. "A few weeks ago, I stole some money from a guy. I thought that he was just a regular drunk bastard, but it turned out he was a Templar. Just as the rotten asshole was about to kill me, a man called Haytham Kenway stepped in and gutted him. To repay him for saving my life, I've been helping him.

"I don't know much about Templars and Assassins outside of what Mr. Kenway told me, but I know that the Templars are up to no good. This convoy was supposed to go to one of their weapon stores," she smiled ruefully. "I was gonna blow it all up, all the weapons. The last thing we need out here is another war, and you can't fight a war without guns."

"Why do you have his journal?" Connor asked.

"Mr. Kenway said that he had important business to finish up. He…he didn't know if he was gonna make it back, I guess. He just gave me the journal for safekeeping, told me to not let it fall into Templar hands."

"Why do the Templars want the journal," Caleb asked, motioning to it with the barrel of his gun.

Mallow looked uncertain for a moment. She shifted from foot to foot before finally answering. "I don't know. I thought that it might be scandalous or something, but the journal's in code. I can't read it," she admitted. "You know it means that I can't let you have it either, right? You guys may be Assassins, but I can't just hand over something without knowing why it's so damn important."

"But you would protect it with your life?" Connor asked skeptically.

Mallow nodded. "Not because of what it is, but because of who it's for. Mr. Kenway saved my life. If he wants me to protect his journal, then I'll do my best, even if it means you two'll shoot me or stab me or however it is you Assassins kill."

So Haytham was alive and fighting against the Templars. Connor still didn't know the reasoning, but he knew that the Templars wanted him dead probably just as much. But why had he come to North Carolina, where the Templar bias was still strong, especially if he had sensitive information that couldn't fall into enemy hands? He could've gone anywhere else in the Frontier, but instead, Haytham chose to walk into the wolf's den. Unless…

The new Grandmaster Templar was in town.

"What business did Haytham have?" Connor asked.

Mallow shrugged her narrow shoulders the best as she could with her arms still in the air. "I don—"

"Stop lying!"

She jerked a little and sighed. "He went to go kill the Templar leader, the Grandmaster he called him."

"Where?"

"If I tell you where, then you've gotta give me back the journal and promise not to kill me," she demanded.

Connor jerked his head at Caleb and the two backed up a few paces. They turned their mouths away from Mallow, but kept her in their peripheral.

"I don't trust her," Caleb said, hushed.

Connor nodded. "Neither do I," he admitted. "She is hiding something and I do not want to risk our lives unnecessarily."

"But what if she's telling the truth, at least about some things?"

"If Haytham is attempting to attack the Grandmaster alone, he may not…succeed. We cannot allow him to fall without discovering what knowledge he has."

"So you wanna help him take out the Grandmaster?" Caleb verified.

Connor nodded.

"Well, it's not like it wasn't on our agenda anyway!" Caleb grinned widely.

The Native Assassin turned back to Mallow. "Deal. If you take us to the Templar Grandmaster's location, we will spare your life."

"And the journal?" she asked, eying the binding still gripped in Connor's hand.

"Will only return to your keeping after we find Haytham."

She glared at Connor with fiery determination. "Fine, but only so long as you keep me out of the fights. I've got good aim with throwing rocks, and I can run away really fast, but that's about the extent of my abilities."

Connor shook on it and Caleb slowly lowered his pistol. It was going to be a busy night.

* * *

**Later**

Haytham grunted as he was shoved again, the Templar's hand thrusting firmly into the center of his back, nearly making him stumble across the uneven gray bricks beneath his feet. The shackles on his wrist jangled in an unpleasant reminder of his predicament.

"The Grandmaster will sort you out, traitor," the Templar mocked as they arrived in the dungeon. Haytham wrinkled his nose at the stench of mold and stale piss.

"I never forget a face. There won't be anywhere you can run that I won't find you," Haytham began, calmly and confidently. "I'll kill you before the night is out."

The Templar guard seemed to hesitate, as if to consider just how Haytham could do that. "Y-you'll be dead before then! Just wait until the Grandmaster judges you!" Behind the false bravado, the man sounded like he was ready to wet his pants. As he should. He saw Haytham kill over a dozen of his comrades before the ex-Templar fell.

Haytham smirked behind the dried blood on the side of his face, feeling the tightness of it like a mask. His aging body just wasn't what it used to be and he had been careless to get caught. But Haytham was, above all else, a man of opportunity. And if the opportunity wasn't readily presented to him, then he would make one.

The Templar guard threw open a cell door and roughly shoved Haytham inside. However, the lad didn't get the chance to close the door before Haytham kicked the iron bars. Hard. The heavy metal door clanged open on the Templar, causing him to smack his head on the wall with a resounding thud and slump to the floor.

Haytham made a mental note of his own injuries. His left shoulder felt as if it was on fire and his head throbbed where he had been clobbered with a makeshift club. Other than that, he seemed in sound condition. He was testing the length of the shackle chain when he heard several pairs of footsteps echoing down the hallway. He slipped over to the doorframe and barely had time to plaster himself flat against the jamb. The first guard to walk through the door let out a shocked yelp as Haytham shouldered him hard enough to send the Templar sprawling.

A lot of yelling and cursing ensued as the next Templar smashed the butt of his pistol into the back of Haytham's neck, making him stumble. Another Templar grabbed the traitor by his shoulders, adding extra pressure to the one that was surely dislocated, and hauled him upright. Haytham snarled angrily as he struggled. Altogether, there were only three Templars in the dungeon with him.

He could take them.

Finally, the Grandmaster Templar entered the room with a slow, condescending clap. He was a heavyset man, with feet that looked far too small for his legs and pale, wispy blond hair framing his beady, watery blue eyes.

"Why, if it isn't Haytham Kenway," he drawled, a faint British accent tinting his words. "If you wanted to meet your successor, all you had to do was ask…" He paused to throw Haytham's hidden blade and bracer aside—no doubt a gift of proof that his guards had caught the traitor.

"You're a disgrace to the Order," Haytham sneered. "You're not fit to call yourself Grandmaster."

-SMACK!-

Haytham's head snapped to the side. His face reddened where he had been backhanded and a fresh bead of blood oozed from his split lip.

"You know nothing of being a proper Grandmaster, Traitor! You spent your time playing in the shadows, fraternizing with Assassins, and trying to keep the Templar prowess from the public eye! THAT is a disgrace!" the Grandmaster shouted, his jowls wobbling in rage as his face blossomed into a brilliant shade of puce. "We found your journal, Traitor! We know that you murdered Grandmaster Reginald Birch AND that you allowed your bastard of a son to dismantle the Colonial Templar influence from right under your nose! And you had the _nerve_ to survive your final battle with him and not even tell your own Order!"

"Bah, you're not even fit to call yourself a Templar," Haytham countered. "You sailed away overseas before the war even started and only saw fit to return when it was over. You preach aggressive tactics without considering the ramifications it will have on the general populace. You declare a violent war when you've never _fought_ a war."

Such a comment only earned him another backhand across his cheek. His hat toppled to the floor.

"You're a ruined old fool! I will do what I must to change this world for the better, even if it means writing sightless morons like yourself from history!" the Grandmaster spittled as he painfully grasped the back of Haytham's gray hair. "Just give me the journal and tell me where the Artifact is and I'll make your death as quick and painless as possible."

Haytham raised his lip in annoyance. "…I like that hat."

The Grandmaster only had the briefest of clueless reactions before Haytham first kneed him in the groin and when the grip on his hair went lax, headbutt him in the nose.

Haytham hopped into the air, his knees up high as his shackles slipped beneath him by a hair's breadth and a prayer. He only just had enough time to slip the Grandmaster between himself and the line of pistol fire. The ample body shielded Haytham quite well, and the Templars shouted in rage and frustration. They had killed their own Grandmaster.

The ex-Templar made short work of the other guards. It was child's play since his arms were finally in front of him, and the shackle chain was positively splendid for snapping necks. Once the dogs had been put down, Haytham rummaged through their pockets until he found a key to his shackles. He didn't have much time until others would investigate the gunshots. After setting his shoulder (something that made his head swoon with agony), the traitor grabbed his bracer and slipped it back on, grateful for the familiar weight. He scooped up his hat and turned to the sound of whimpering and pained moans.

"Oh God, oh God, please don't kill me, I don't want to die," blood sprayed from the Grandmaster's mouth with each word as he clutched the bullet holes in his chest. "Mercy, mercymercymercy!" he wheezed.

Haytham tilted his head to the side, debating leaving him there to suffer until he bled out. Instead, he crouched down beside the writhing mass and ejected his hidden blade across the Grandmaster's neck. The Grandmaster gurgled, his hands clawing at the gaping, bloody wound as his piggy-eyes glassed over.

"I'd tell you to go to hell, but I can't think of a hell that would have such a sniveling coward like yourself."

With that, Haytham grabbed a few more weapons and left the dungeon. He backtracked along the route the guard initially led him through, expecting to meet dozens of guards along the way. Instead, his escape seemed eerily quiet. There was no one coming to investigate the gunshots in the dungeon. In fact, there weren't guards even in the hallways! Haytham was about to internally criticize the late-Grandmaster's lack of security when he heard the faintest snippet of gunfire and shouting.

Well, best not go that way.

But try as he might, almost all of the underground hallways led back up to the main courtyard. He had no choice. Perhaps it was the Chickamuaga attacking again. They were particularly hostile towards any and everyone. Although Haytham doubted that he could slip by without being noticed, he would stand a chance. His shoulder was sagging in pain, but at least it obeyed his commands once more.

Though of all sights to see when he snuck out into the courtyard, he did not expect this.

Connor was fighting the Templars away with expert skill while someone else, probably another Assassin, was sniping men off one by one.

Damn, so the fool boy had found him. Haytham knew that Connor had been chasing after him like a lost puppy ever since Florida, but he didn't expect the boy to go to THESE extremes. Breaking into the Grandmaster's fort, making a ruckus, and killing every Templar on sight seemed rash. Well, he never did credit Connor with prized executive skills.

Haytham used the commotion to slip away and find an exit to the fort that he could climb. His bad shoulder could hold his weight, but he had to make it count. Finally, he found a route and turned to glance at Connor again in the courtyard.

The boy was still holding his own, his head held high and his tomahawk held higher, but Haytham could see the signs of fatigue. Connor had been fighting for the better part of fifteen minutes already and it was beginning to take its toll. Against his better thought, he whistled loud during a lull in the steady stream of guards.

Connor glanced up and seemed to hesitate for just a moment. Ah, the boy must be using his Eagle Vision. Haytham motioned for his son to follow and Connor hooked his tomahawk back onto his belt and made a bird-call signal to his companion to follow.

Haytham went ahead and scaled the edge of the fort wall, his shoulder protesting at once. From there, escape was just a hay cart and a Leap of Faith away. The two Assassins followed right after.

Haytham brushed the straws of hay from his cloak as Connor climbed out of the cart, hay sticking to his hood. The two stared at each other, jaws locked. They weren't drinking in the moment like good friends or even a family should, but rather they sized each other up. Words clogged up in their throats, leaving them grimacing and glaring at each other in silence until the sniper performed his Leap and climbed safely from the hay cart.

"…Father," Connor finally offered stiffly.

"Son…" Haytham replied.

Another lapse of silence.

Then "Wait, wait a minute," the sniper was clearly baffled. "You two are related?!"

Both father and son looked to the man, the verbal affirmation unnecessary.

"But Father, how did you survi—" Connor started.

"Irrelevant," Haytham interrupted.

"And is the current Grandmaster-"

"Dead."

Another brief silence before they heard the beats of hoofs riding towards them. Ah, reinforcements. The Templar cavalry began firing their rifles and pistols at them and the trio ducked and broke apart.

"Well, as enlightening as this has been, gentlemen," Haytham nodded his farewell and ran to the nearest rider. "Another time then!" He dragged the rider off, mounted the stolen horse, and galloped away, leaving Connor and Caleb to fight.

Connor couldn't help the smirk pulling at the edge of his lips as he readied his weapons with renewed vigor. "…Bastard."


	10. Chapter 9

**July 18, 1784**

"No offense, Connor," Caleb said as he was cleaning and oiling his guns, "but your Dad's a dick."

Connor chuckled quietly, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. He had been in better spirits since escaping from the fort, not that Caleb could blame him. The new Grandmaster was dead, they had a positive identification on the Templar traitor, and they were still hot on Haytham's trail. Caleb never thought that a man so old would be able to outmaneuver them for so long, but Connor's father was still slipping from under their noses. Granted, the search for Haytham Kenway had cooled in light of recent events. Once the new Grandmaster had been killed, the Templars of North Carolina began to hide in the woodwork like packs of rats. Never one to pass up and opportunity, Connor and Caleb had hunted down the more prominent members of the Order and pried sensitive information out of each and every one. They sent the intelligence to Aveline in New Orleans and to Connor's recruits in Boston. Having rid the state of Templar influence, Connor also took the time to recruit more Assassins to secure North Carolina.

Now that the area was stabilized, Connor turned his attention once again to tracking his father. Some of Connor's newest recruits had been tailing him off and on and although the information they had was skim, it was enough to monitor his basic movements. After the incident at the fort, he had laid low, probably to recover from his injuries. But in the past few weeks, Haytham's movements became erratic. He likely noticed that he was being followed and wanted nothing to do with it, but Connor needed to move in on him before he ran out of range. Thankfully, it shouldn't be long until they catch up.

Connor didn't notice the slight smile on the corners of his lips as he mused about his father. Haytham was alive. Somehow, his father was alive. The Templar traitor wasn't an imposter and to make things even better, Haytham was destroying Templar influence. If the former Grandmaster was no longer with the Order, then Connor wouldn't have to kill him again. They might even be able to reconcile.

Connor had so many apologies for his father, and even more questions. He took Haytham's journal from a pouch on his side and thumbed the spine. He hadn't been able to crack the code yet, but he had been working on it. Once he found Haytham, perhaps his father would just tell him what was so important about the worn leather notebook.

"Yanno, if you had just focused on finding Mr. Kenway these past few weeks, then I'd already be out of your way," Mallow brooded as she glanced at the journal hungrily. Connor didn't even need to look at her to confirm what her sights were on. He put the journal away.

"It was necessary," he answered simply.

"And how do I know that you're not just going to kill me and keep the journal for yourself? It's been so long that I doubt you even want to find Mr. Kenway anymore." she pouted.

Caleb rolled his eyes. "Kid, if we were gonna kill you and keep the goods, then we would've done away with you ages ago."

She sighed. "Then can I at least spend one night without my hands all tied up?"

"No. You have yet to give me a reason to trust you alone," Connor shook his head. At night, the Assassins would bind the girl's wrists together with a thick rope. She wouldn't be able to escape quietly on foot or by horse and she wouldn't be able to strike the Assassins in their sleep without waking them. Connor would've loved to send the brat on her way, but he knew that she wouldn't leave without the journal, and Connor wasn't so keen to just give it up without knowing its importance. He still had to ask Haytham why it was so special. Mallow knew something about it, but she was keeping her lips sealed.

She was a strange girl, stranger than most Connor had known. At times, she had an accent like a street urchin and she seemed to go to great lengths to walk with a clumsy gait. Other times, her words were too posh and her posture belied an aristocratic upbringing. She would recoil in disgust when skinning animals for food, but she'd eat like a slob. She could read, but she claimed to have been raised humbly. No matter which personality was the true one, she was still lying about something.

And she glowed red, like a Templar.

Connor had been slowly easing himself into using his Eagle Vision and Eagle Sense again. The Vision was the easier of the two skills—he'd been using it for as long as he could remember. When he was small, before he even knew that his eyes were special, he would gaze upon his mother with his Eagle Vision and bathe in the warm, comforting blue aura that surrounded her. But his Eagle Sight was much more difficult to use. If he didn't regularly practice, then he would be assaulted with migraines and nausea almost immediately. And worse yet, if he utilized it TOO much, then the painful effects would be the same when returning to his normal eyes.

Once the migraines lessened, he had gazed upon Mallow with his Eagle Vision. He wasn't surprised that her aura was a deep, blood red, but he had hoped otherwise.

"How can I give you a demonstration of my trustworthiness if you're constantly ordering your lapdog to babysit me?" Mallow crossed her arms in front of her chest and pouted.

"Hey now, watch your mouth, girlie. You've got a nasty tendency of trying to sneak away when you think we're not paying attention. Don't think we haven't noticed," Caleb snorted. "It's not the sort of behavior that makes us think too highly of you."

"Well, of course!" she blustered. "It's only natural for a young woman to want to get away from THIS inadequate environment!"

Connor raised an eyebrow. "But you are not pretending to be a young woman. You are masquerading as a man."

"So it's better to treat me as a prisoner?" Mallow positively glowered.

"You are no prisoner. If you want to leave, then leave," Connor motioned to the wilderness about them. Mallow narrowed her eyes before averting them. The Assassins knew that she wouldn't run without the journal, and they had no intention of giving it to her until they met up with Haytham.

"I thought that Assassins were supposed to be the good guys," she grumbled bitterly.

Caleb laughed and Connor snorted. "I thought that Templars did not pout," Connor retorted with a shake of his head. Mallow stiffened and stared into the campfire. As the realization hit her, the girl's body tensed and readied to flee or fight at a moment's notice.

A thick silence reigned over the trio.

"…How long have you known?" Mallow asked in a harsh whisper.

"Since the beginning," Connor replied as Caleb nodded.

Her lips thinned into a bloodless line. "I'm not a Templar, not anymore," she denied. "I…I ran away."

Mallow glared at the Brotherhood Mentor. "I was born into it! I didn't choose it for myself and after the war, I didn't want anything to do with them anymore! I wanted to leave Templars and Assassins behind, but no matter where I turn, they're always there!"

Connor didn't respond and Caleb went back to oiling his guns.

"A-Are…Are you going to kill me?" Mallow asked.

Connor shook his head. Mallows confession confirmed his suspicions, but it did nothing to ease his mind. "No. You do not deserve to die simply because of your former allegiance."

The girl seemed to sigh with relief, but she didn't get the chance to relax before Connor's gaze pierced her like a pin.

"But if you cross us, we will kill you," Connor finished, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Mallow went pale, but nodded firmly.

Connor hoped that the girl really was against the Templars and that they could simply send her away once they found Haytham. But his gut instinct told him otherwise. Until she made her move, however, he would stay his blade.

* * *

The next bit of information brought them to a small town off of the road. Haytham was apparently staying at one of the inns, but Connor's recruits didn't know which one. There were a total of three inns and four taverns in the tiny town, each one competing for travelers' pocketbooks. Connor had prepared to ask around for more information, but as soon as they trotted into the settlement he found that such inquiries were unnecessary.

One of the inns was on fire.

Connor's heart jumped into his throat at the sight of the flames and his hands tightened on the reins of his horse. The air was acrid and bitter and the ashes were burning the back of his throat, even on the outskirts of town.

"What're the odds that you dad's behind this?" Caleb asked.

Mallow peered out from around the Sharpshooter's broad form, her arms still firmly encircled around his waist. She looked to the smoke on the horizon. "Could it be Templars?" she asked.

"Let us hope not," Connor couldn't help the sinking weight in his stomach as he spurred his horse towards the inferno. With each passing second, he fought to keep his breath even and his head cool. Whether or not the fire was started by a Templar was irrelevant; there might be people in trouble and he was a strong, capable young man willing to help. If he didn't at least do something, then he didn't think that he could live with himself.

Connor dismounted his horse and tied it to a fence rail several buildings down. Caleb and Mallow followed as he sprinted towards the group of people helping put the fire out. There was a chain of them, passing buckets of water from the well down the street as another trickle of people were sprinting the empty buckets back to be refilled. Someone was yelling and pointing at the windows on the second story of the inn. Connor winced as the heat from the fire warmed his skin even from a distance.

"Is everyone safe?!" He yelled to some fellow who was ordering people about as if he was in charge.

"Tell me, is everyone out of the building!?" he urged the man again, who only barely seemed to notice him.

"Are you deaf, boy!? There are still two people on the second floor! But we can't save them, we just have to focus on putting out the fire before it spreads!" he urged Connor solemnly.

Connor gritted his teeth and screwed up his eyes at the windows of the second floor. Even with his Eagle Vision, he couldn't see past the flames. Caleb gripped Connor's shoulder tightly.

"You can't be seriously thinking about it, are you Connor?!" Caleb clutched. "I wanna save them as much as you do, but you can't be serious!"

Connor squeezed his eyes shut. The mere sight of such flames had a way of making his blood run cold. His hands were shaking and his breath was short, but the helplessness was worse than the heat. He hadn't been able to save his own mother. But now that he was older and stronger, he could save someone else. Every person is someone's mother or father or brother or sister or friend.

"I must try," Connor shrugged off Caleb's hand. He took off his belt, shedding his short sword and the journal pouch with it. He couldn't afford to be weighted down unnecessarily. But just as he was about to run inside, a woman rushed up to him, screaming hysterically as she shoved him hard in the chest.

"MONSTER! SAVAGE, HEATHEN, MONSTER!" she yelled. Connor grabbed her wrists and she began trying to kick him in the shins.

"Calm yourself!" he roared to the woman, "Stop attacking me, I am not your enemy!"

"Yes, yes you are!" she screamed shrilly, catching the glances of several other Colonists. "It's all your fault, all you and your kind! It's one of YOU that started the fire! One of YOU and your dirty, filthy, GODLESS parasites!"

"I started nothing! Calm yourself!" Connor defended, more worried that he would lose his nerve than the topic of her ranting.

Another couple of fellows ran up to the woman and pulled her off of Connor. She was crying and still screeching hysterically as she was dragged away.

"You'll have to excuse Mrs. Dempsy! This was her inn!" the director called to Connor. "A Native and a British man were rumored to have started the fire! They were fighting and something got out of hand! They're the two people still trapped inside."

"Then I will do what I can!" Connor insisted.

The director laughed. "Looks like your friend is already on it!"

Connor glanced towards the building just as Caleb doused himself with a bucket of water. He had removed his pouches and weapons as well and he wore a handkerchief over his mouth. To Connor's horror, Caleb only gave a jaunty wave to him before darting inside the burning building.

Caleb mentally berated himself for his rash decision the moment that he stepped foot inside. He had to be downright insane.

"HEY!" he called into the fire, "Where are you!?" He strained his ears past the roar of the flames, cursing when no sound returned to him. But then, there was a noise. It was not a voice, but rather the sound of metal clanging against metal. "HEY!" he called again, squinting up to the balcony above the staircase.

There were two men, both of them silhouetted against the flames as they fought. One of them wore a hat and the other seemed to be covered with some sort of mud. Caleb thought to go up the stairs, but as soon as he approached the first step, the staircase fell apart. The man with the hat tossed his assailant into the railing. The balusters gave way immediately and with a yell, the assailant tumbled to the floor below. But he did not fall without dragging the other man with him.

Caleb shielded his eyes from the flames, coughing as the debris and smoke filled his lungs, and moved in to try and help the brawlers. One of them was on the floor, unmoving, and Caleb feared the worst.

"Hey, get up!" he yelled to the man, whose hat had tumbled off. He was an older fellow and his face was covered in soot and grime, but Caleb couldn't help but feel that he recognized him. The older man grunted and slowly tried to stand, his sword still grasped tightly in his fist.

"Get out," he rasped, trying to shove Caleb aside weakly. "Templars…"

Caleb's brow furrowed as he cursed. The man was Haytham, it had to be Haytham! He looped his arm under the fallen man's shoulder, hoisting him up. Haytham was coughing and his movements were sluggish, but he still managed to stumble alongside the Assassin.

Just before Caleb reached one of the open windows, he heard a fresh shuffle behind him.

"Traitor scum!" the other man screamed, his voice hoarse and dry. Caleb barely managed to side-step the knife aimed at his side. Reeling, he stumbled backwards, nearly dropping Haytham's lethargic weight, and kicked at the Templar hard. The assailant tumbled over some of the fallen debris and into the flames with a scream.

With his head feeling lighter than it should and his chest too tight, he began to push Haytham through the open window. Some men on the outside thankfully grabbed onto the listless body and pulled him out.

"CALEB!" Connor called to him. A group of men were holding him back, keeping him from charging into the building after his friend, but now that Caleb was so near, Connor finally broke free of their hold and rushed forward. He helped pull his fellow Assassin from the flames and they barely moved out of range before an almighty crack shattered the air. The second story of the inn collapsed, sending a fresh stream of fire into the evening sky.

"I'm fine!" Caleb coughed, removing the bandana from his mouth. He sucked in a merciful breath of air and waved Connor off of him. "Him! Help him! I think it's Haytham!"

Connor was immediately torn between who to help. But since Caleb was doing better, with his hands braced on his knees as he took deep, thankful breaths, Connor rushed to the unknown man pulled from the building.

The other fellow, though grimy and disheveled, was indeed Haytham Kenway. He was trying to keep the other people at sword's length, but his exhaustion was obvious. Haytham could barely hold the tip of his blade level. He locked weary eyes with his son.

"What are you doing here?" he rasped.

Connor edged closer. "I'm trying to help. Please sheathe your sword," he urged quietly, his hand pressing lightly on the flat of the blade. Haytham glared at his son before putting the weapon away. They both knew that Haytham was too weakened to fight the seasoned Assassin.

The other townsfolk returned to putting out the fire as Connor led his father back towards the horses and away from the flames. Though Haytham was a downright mess, he still insisted on walking without aid and he held his shoulders as square as he could. His clothes were burned and singed, but it didn't appear as if he had any physical damage aside from the unhealthy rattle in his lungs from smoke inhalation.

"Wait here while I fetch a doctor," Connor insisted. "And do not run. You are in no shape for travel, Father."

Haytham seemed to be torn between rolling his eyes and glaring at his son. Though he could take one of the horses, the former Templar knew that he wouldn't get very far without rest and medical treatment. He was about to impart some snarky witticism to his dullard of a son, but as soon as he opened his mouth, a coughing fit had him doubling over and gasping for air.

Connor almost looked worried, but he instead just smirked, shook his head, and left to find a doctor. Along the way, the Assassin stooped to collect his discarded belts from earlier. He immediately cursed his carelessness.

The journal was gone.

A quick glance over the area proved that Mallow had fled and likely taken the journal with her.

Connor was about to search for her when he heard his father's hoarse shout. Short sword in hand, he rushed back over to a horrific sight. Haytham was on the ground, wrestling and coughing as another man fit to be a corpse tried to stab him.

What was left of the assailant's flesh hung in crisp, black strips. The cracks in his charbroiled shell were oozing and bleeding and he smelled like overcooked meat. His face was unshaped and globular and his hand had melted around a knife.

"Father!" Connor yelled. He hadn't gotten a single step closer to the ghastly combatant when he felt the cold metal of a pistol against the back of his head.

"I wouldn't get any closer, if I were you," she drawled, her British accent finally breaking the surface with full force. "Drop your weapon and turn around. I wouldn't want to shoot you in the back when I could blast off your face instead."

Connor's lip curled. "Mallow…" he growled. The woman's gun dug against his skull in response. Connor tossed his short sword aside and raised his hands in the air. "So you have decided your path."

"Idiot, I never diverged from it!" she spat bitterly. "As Templars, we _know_ that our system is right. We've no need to doubt the Order and our teachings, thus we've no need to choose any other path. Betraying the Order is for only the weak and stupid."

Connor's nostrils flared, Mallow's words only vaguely registering in his mind as he watched Haytham struggle under the other Templar. His father's hand reached out, scrambling for something, anything to fight with. His fingers found the hilt of Connor's discarded sword, and with a roar of fury, he impaled the charred, half-melted carcass above him. The thing let out a disturbing squealish warble before it fell limp onto Haytham's chest.

Coughing and choking for air, Haytham pushed the too-crisp body off of him and stood with the short sword raised. "Eleanor Mallow, daughter of Matthew Davenport. Why am I not surprised." He grated.

"You shouldn't be. After you killed my father, you must have known that I was coming for you, traitor," she hissed, eyes narrowed dangerously at Haytham. "But perhaps we can settle, an eye for an eye. I'll kill your son…" she clicked back the hammer on her gun. "…unless you be a good sport and translate the journal for me."

Haytham's glare was frightening enough to make most men piss their pants. Connor felt Mallow stiffen behind him as she tried not to fidget under the ex-Templar's wrath.

"_You would __**dare**__ use my son against me?_" Haytham snarled.

Connor would've liked to think that Haytham's rage was born from paternal instincts, but he knew otherwise. His father's scowl was darker and more possessive than that and Connor understood what it meant; Haytham wasn't going to let anyone kill Connor because he wanted to do it himself. Connor knew that he should've been more worried, but with a gun to his head, caught in a standoff between a Templar and his father, he could only find himself bizarrely relieved.

Eleanor Mallow faltered. A gunshot rang through the air and Connor stumbled forward.

Mallow screamed as she dropped her gun and clutched at her bleeding arm.

"Can't let you kids have all the fun!" Caleb called from a nearby roof as he reloaded his shotgun.

Mallow ran for cover. Just as Connor was about to give chase, he hesitated. The Assassin glanced at his father, his brow furrowed in determination.

"Please do not run away from me again, Father." His voice was a quiet request, but Haytham could see the imploring gleam in his eyes.

"I can't guarantee that, Connor," Haytham snorted.

The Native's fists clenched in something like desperation. He needed to chase Mallow and retrieve the journal, but a part of him feared that Haytham would disappear again the moment he turned his back. "You still need a doctor. I don't know what your goal is, but you cannot do it alone."

"So you think that I need your help?" he scoffed.

"I **know** you need my help," Connor's eyes narrowed.

"...You also know that I can't trust you Assassins," Haytham sneered.

"Then trust me as your _son_."

Connor nearly held his breath as he waited for a response. Then, Haytham sheathed the short sword.

"She'll be back, Boy. You needn't bother with pursuit," he grumbled irately.

"But she still has the journal," Connor protested, trying to keep the smile from his face.

Haytham's smirk was wearier than the Assassin remembered. "Yes, but she cannot translate it without my assistance. She'll be back."

"So we should wait until she brings reinforcements with her? Just promise me that you won't run again and I will collect the journal," Connor offered.

"Reinforcements? In this area? No, she'll be alone for at least another week yet," Haytham waved his hand. He knew that he was in poor shape. His chest was burning something fierce and his throat felt swollen and sore. He wouldn't be able to run from Connor this time, but that didn't mean he would trust himself not to try. If Connor pursued Eleanor Mallow, Haytham knew that he'd use the opportunity to flee. If Connor stayed by his side, then he would have no choice but to remain.

"…If you intend to keep moving, then I will go with you. What is your destination, Father?"

"Far away from here," was Haytham's enigmatic, relieved response.

Caleb walked up to the two men, quiet coughs still plaguing him. "So, now we're up for a family vacation, right? We'll need another horse."

Haytham glared and Connor smiled. "Thank you for saving us. That was a good shot," Connor nodded to the Sharpshooter.

"Naaaah, it was actually pretty piss-poor. I think that I might need a doc, too," Caleb gave a sheepish smile. "I was aiming for her head."

After Caleb and Haytham were treated for smoke inhalation, they settled down for the night. At the first light of morning, the trio was firmly ushered away from the town. The fire at the inn had stigmatized them as trouble makers and the townspeople didn't want any more misfortune. It was just as well, because Connor didn't want the innocents to be entangled in anymore battles between Templars and Assassins.

"Boy, where did you get that sword?" Haytham snapped while they moved onto the next settlement.

Connor smirked. "My aunt gave it to me," he glanced at his father. "She said that it had been yours."

"Hmph, leave it to Jenny. Is she still…" Haytham's sentence trailed off into silence.

"She passed last year," Connor filled the gap.

"Ah."

* * *

**A Year Prior**

**London**

Connor liked to think that he knew Haytham much better since he read his father's old journals, but the traitorous void in his heart reminded him otherwise. He hadn't known his father and now, he never would get to know him. Perhaps that longing urged him to accept the offer in the letter sent from London. The woman in the letter wanted to meet him.

She claimed to be his aunt.

After internally debating the offer for nearly four months, Connor finally sent a letter in reply. A week later, he finished packing up _The Aquila_ with new cargo and set sail with his crew. It would do well for business to trade at a another port overseas. Mr. Faulkner had even been the one to suggest a specific, Assassin-friendly harbor near London for them.

When he got to dry land, Connor thought that he'd be excited to meet his aunt. Instead, he dallied about, helping to unload cargo and assisting poor, aging Mr. Faulkner. To his chagrin, it was actually the fiery first-mate who nearly pushed him off the ship.

"Go do what you came here to do, lad! We'll take care of this!" Mr. Faulkner had called after him.

Connor sighed. At least he had already changed back into his Assassin robes. But while he needed to find his way to Queen Anne's Square, he wasn't comfortable in the least asking for directions. Sailors and harbormasters and merchants kept staring, slack-jawed and shamelessly at the Assassin as if he was an exotic animal in a zoo. Though these people saw many different nationalities come into port, a Native from the Colonies must have been rare, even for them. He was about to begin scaling the tallest buildings just to get away from the gawking, when an elder gentleman with a short sword on his hip caught his eye. He was staring at Connor, scrutinizing him in a different manner than the others. Connor immediately focused his Eagle Vision on the stranger. It was an ally.

The man walked calmly to Connor and held out his hand, ring finger tucked. Connor followed suit and nodded at the fellow.

"Connor, I presume?" the grizzled man asked.

"Yes. And you are?"

"Lucio. Welcome to London, Mentor," the old man replied dully. He turned around and beckoned for the Native to follow.

"Thank you, Lucio, but I have personal matters to tend to before any business can commence," Connor declined.

"You think I'm just here for the Brotherhood? Nah, I'm taking care of personal matters too, Sir," Lucio sighed, his face scrunched up as if glass were digging into his spine. "Ms. Jenny asked me to escort you to Queen Anne's Square as soon as you docked. She's not getting any younger, and I owe her one last favor before she goes. I've got a carriage waiting already."

Connor considered for a moment, but nodded and followed. The carriage ride was primarily spent in silence. Lucio was frowning the whole time, his face twisted into a myriad of disgust and anger. Finally, Connor was exasperated.

"If you have better things to do, Lucio, then I will finish the journey on my own," Connor sighed. He was already anxious enough to meet his aunt; he didn't need this fellow's sour behavior rubbing off on him, too.

"As much as I'd like to do that, Sir, I can't. I'm bound by honor, and at this ripe age, honor is all I've got left," Lucio replied, rubbing his temples.

"Why is it so important that you escort me?"

Lucio glanced at Connor and then to the carriage floor where he seemed to consider reluctantly. "If I may speak candidly, Mentor?"

Connor nodded for him to continue.

"I hated your father," Lucio locked eyes with the Native Assassin, his gaze a simmering broth of rage and frustration. "In fact, I still hate him. But he begged my life to be spared when he had every right to order his companion to kill my mother and me. As much as I despise that rotten bastard, I still owe him. Since he's dead, the next best thing I can do is to repay that favor to his kin. I'm not proud to be here, but I'll do what I must to clear my conscience."

Connor nodded slowly. Only a handful of people in the Colonies knew of his blood ties to the late-Grandmaster. "You are Lucio, the boy that Haytham kidnapped for Birch."

"Aye," Lucio grimaced. "Brag about it a lot, did he?"

"No. I confiscated my father's old journals after he…passed. He wrote about the incident," Connor said, suddenly feeling like a peeping tom.

Lucio nodded. "I'm sorry if I offended you, Sir," Lucio looked back out of the window.

"I am not offended. You are entitled to your rage, and I hope that escorting me will be enough to quell the hatred that burdens you," Connor offered quietly.

Lucio seemed about to say something in response, but he could only swallow hard as the words caught in his throat. He settled for a silent nod and continued watching the scenery fly by.

It didn't take much longer for them to pull up to the Kenway estate in Queen Anne's Square. Connor didn't realize that his breath had frozen in his chest until he stepped out of the carriage and began entering the mansion. This had been his father's home. Or rather, it was the replica of his home. Connor tried to imagine an innocent young boy running around the grounds, trying to find entertainment with himself as his only friend—a boy whose curiosity was boundless and naïve. Haytham had once been a child.

Connor felt uneasy in the family home, a home that belonged to his bloodline. He was an outsider. He didn't belong in this world where fancy woodwork embellished the balcony and lovely corbels were carved into the ceiling trim. He ignored the momentary pang of homesickness twisting in his stomach as he and Lucio were led up the stairs and into an airy drawing room.

"Ah, so you've finally arrived." Jenny said, moving her milky, heavy-lidded eyes to the Assassins.

Connor was taken aback. He had expected a tough warrior, a woman with broad shoulders and a nose like her brother's, and dark hair peppered with gray. But this was the Jenny that he saw now—the fragile shell of the fierce woman who killed former Grandmaster Reginald Birch. Jenny was sitting in a chair that looked out of a large picture window. She seemed to almost disappear into the blankets draped around her shoulders and across her lap. Her hair was a nest of white atop her head, curled in a way that hid her thinning scalp, and her bony hands were pale and shook unconsciously on her knees.

"I am sorry to make you wait," Connor inched forward.

She shook her head gently. "You've arrived before I died. That's the important part, Boy."

Connor hid his surprise. It seemed that his father a_nd_ his aunt had a propensity for nicknaming him 'Boy' despite his obvious maturity. Jenny beckoned the two men closer.

"Mr. Lucio, thank you again for picking up my nephew on your way here," Jenny nodded to the grizzled fellow. She held out her trembling hand to the Assassin.

Lucio reluctantly unstrapped the short sword from his waist and set it tenderly in her hands. As soon as he let go, a wave of relief washed over his features, making him look easily ten years younger than he was.

"With this, all my debts to the Kenway name are paid," his voice was quiet, but liberated. With a sudden, bright smile, Lucio turned to Connor. "Thank you for your understanding, Mentor. Safety and peace." He held out his hand to the Native Assassin.

Connor shook the offered hand, feeling the tension between them melt away. "Safety and peace, Brother."

Lucio left the room, his shoulders light.

"This sword…" Jenny caught Connor's attention again as she gently stroked the scabbard. "This sword belonged to my father. It was a sword that he often talked about, one that meant something to him, that spoke to him in a way that only blades can. He passed it onto Haytham. Now that it's back in the family, it should go to you, Connor."

"I…I cannot," Connor shook his head, uncertain.

Jenny smiled at him, her lips thin and wrinkled. For a moment, Connor could see the beauty that lay before the age. "You may not call yourself a Kenway, but you are still my nephew. If you won't accept this sword as a sign of good faith, then please accept it as a capable weapon." She held it up slightly for him to take.

Connor considered the offer a moment more before reluctantly reaching out for the blade. It was like touching a ghost of the past, but it was a phantom that he wanted to be closer to. This had been Haytham's blade. It had been Edward Kenway's blade. And after years of being lost to the Assassins, it was now Connor's blade.

He took the short sword and unsheathed it. Time had been kind to the weapon, and perhaps Lucio had been kinder to it yet.

"Pull up a chair, Boy. We've business to discuss," Jenny folded her hands into her lap once more. Once Connor did as she bade, she spoke again. "I heard of my brother's death six months after the fact. I was told by the Assassins that it was you, the Mentor of the Colonial Brotherhood and his son, who killed him."

"Yes. I had to. He had become the very persecutor he despised and there…there was no other way," Connor hid the remorse and bit back his uncertainty.

"I thought as much…" she said lightly, surprisingly calm considering that she was sitting next to her brother's murderer. "I always knew that I would outlive him, regardless of the age gap between us. I don't believe in fate or destiny, but I had always assumed that his death would be a violent one. Thank you for putting Haytham to rest."

Connor had expected many reactions, but gratitude was not one of them. "I am sorry for your loss."

"It's not a loss if you can't miss the person who's gone. And you can't miss someone unless you know them. I only knew Haytham as a child, not as the man that he became. But I've heard things from the grapevine, heard about the sort of Templar that he became. I can't miss him because he changed too much. We both did," she glanced at Connor again, the spark of intelligence shining from her cataracts. "Still, I hope that he finally found the peace he sought for so long."

"Are you an ally of the Assassins?" Connor asked, eager to change the topic.

Jenny gave a wheezy, airy laugh. "Oh, heavens no. They don't care for me, but they can't find a good reason to kill me yet. And that's just as well because I hate them, too. In fact, I despise them as much as Templars."

"Has the Brotherhood wronged you?" Connor asked.

"In a manner of speaking," Jenny confessed with the vaguest of shrugs. "The Templars tore my family apart, but the Assassins turned a blind eye to it all. They did nothing to save me or rescue Haytham's mother. That's why I won't let them have this property. I wrestled it away from Templar control, and when the Assassins tried to take it, I denied them, too. They want it, but they won't have it from me so long as I sign it to a proper heir before I die."

"That is why you called me here, then," The Native concluded.

Jenny nodded. "Yes. I'm afraid that I asked you to speak to a tired old lady under false pretenses."

The letter had mentioned catching up on family history. It spoke nothing of bestowing Connor with a lost sword and property rights.

"I am an Assassin. Why would you have the estate under my name?" he asked.

"If there's anything that life has taught me, it's that a person's primary allegiance should be to his or her family. You are my nephew first, an Assassin second. That's what I believe, even if you don't agree. If you were to put this estate under your Brotherhood's control, then that's your decision, not mine. I only wish to leave everything to the only kin I have."

"I must consider your offer carefully," Connor's eyebrows knit together.

"Take your time. You're welcome to stay at the manor for as long as you wish. If not, one of my ladies can direct you to a top-notch inn nearby," Jenny didn't seem disappointed at all. She had been expecting reluctance.

Assassins and Templars. It almost always came back to the silent, bloody war. And somehow, family was supposed to fit snugly in the middle of it all.

"What kind of man do you think my father would have been if not for Reginald Birch?" Connor asked after another moment.

Jenny contemplated for a moment. "I don't know. I only remember how he was as a boy—completely naïve and innocent and so damn easy to manipulate and mold. It's no wonder that Birch was able to steal him away without a fuss or fight. If the Brotherhood had managed to sink their claws into Haytham instead, I still think that the outcome would've been the same," she said. "For the short time that I spent with him as an adult, he was still an idealistic idiot bent on turning the world on its heel. He thought that peace could be achieved with minimal bloodshed. But grief has a way of bringing out the worst in people."

"My father changed after you killed Reginald Birch," Connor stated. Haytham had admired Birch for so long, only to find that his mentor was the one who destroyed his early life. Such grief, the mourning of betrayal and the loss of an idol, was logical.

Jenny smiled, her wrinkles hiding the bitter mirth. "So you've read his journals?"

Connor nodded and his aunt continued. "Then you should know that it wasn't Haytham's realization that changed him, nor finally confronting the truth that he had denied for so long. He was still an idiot after he determined to kill that rotten bastard, Birch. Haytham changed because Jim Holden committed suicide."

Connor frowned in consideration, "They were very good friends, according to the journal... I suppose I can understand that..."

"Oh, if you think that they were just friends, then you don't understand a thing," Jenny gave another wheezy chuckle. "They were sodomites. They were in love."

Connor made a face, disgusted and surprised and frightened all at once. It made sense but…to think that Haytham had led a lifestyle such as that for so long made Connor uneasy. Judging his father for sodomy was hypocritical, but he couldn't convince his mind otherwise at the moment.

Jenny waved her hand dismissively. "I'm not surprised that Haytham left that part out of his journals. I almost didn't believe it myself until years after the incident.

"Jim Holden was a good man. Sodomy aside, he was a good man. And although I witnessed the depths of his love for Haytham, I didn't understand it at the time. I asked Holden why he was so caring to Haytham, why he was fighting so hard to keep my little brother alive. Though I was grateful to Haytham for saving me, I would've let him die. He was suffering so much. Too much..." Jenny's filmy eyes glazed over for a moment before continuing. "And you know what Holden told me, Connor?"

Connor shook his head, morbidly curious.

"Holden told me that Haytham didn't have a lantern," she wheezed again, a bitter smile on her lips. "He said that Haytham was always wandering in the dark because he liked it that way, but when he'd get lost, he would let the shadows swallow him whole rather than find a light. Holden had helped Haytham out of the darkness once, and he promised me that he'd do it again.

"I asked Holden what he planned to do after Haytham woke up. He told me that Haytham best understood violence over anything else. At first, I didn't understand what the boy had meant. I thought that he had gone mad with grief. But I understand now."

She looked again to Connor, her hands placidly folded in her lap. The shaking had stopped momentarily. "Holden couldn't give Haytham what he needed anymore, and I don't mean just physically. If Holden had left him, then Haytham wouldn't have understood. It would have broken him in a way far worse than either of us could imagine. He would've become the monster he feared for so long in a quarter of the time."

"And Holden couldn't have that. So he killed himself..." Connor finished quietly, the pieces falling into place. "A violent death..."

"Yes, because Haytham couldn't have understood anything less."

Connor shifted, unsettled. The two spoke a little while more, primarily about the mundane and boring, before Connor excused himself. It was just as well—Jenny was getting tired.

For the next few weeks, Connor delved into the Brotherhood's libraries for information on his father and grandfather. He learned more about Edward Kenway than Haytham ever knew. While part of Connor was proud to have such an amazing ancestry, he couldn't help but feel ashamed, as if he were digging up sacred bones and shifting them to another grave. But he needed to know. His only living relative was dying of old age and Connor didn't know when he'd work up the courage to research his family again.

Connor visited Jenny daily, and sometimes even many times a day. Her mind was still clever and her tongue keen and sharp-witted, but her body didn't seem to want to keep up. Connor agreed to take control of the Kenway estate in Queen Anne's Square. The family fortune, one that had been carefully nurtured by his aunt, would also be passed onto him. Jenny died quietly in her sleep three days later.

The Native prepared the funeral and finished the paperwork to turn the manor into an orphanage for the city. Within the month, Connor was again headed across the high seas, away from London and Bloomsbury and Queen Anne's Square. He had found his family, and he was going home to the Colonies.

* * *

_**Crimmy Comments: I daresay, that might be the last flashback that I have planned for this fic. Yay! No more jumping back and forth through time!**_


	11. Chapter 10

_**Crimmy Comments: This chapter contains spoilers for the Tyranny of King Washington DLC! I can't quite tell if the spoiler is major or minor, but it's a spoiler all the same. Also, the timeframe for the DLC conflicts with this fic. Canon, the DLC supposedly happens after the Revolutionary War has officially ended, which would probably put it at around January or February of 1784. But in this fic, Connor was chasing Daddy Dearest and playing with Indians in Tennessee in early 1784. So for the purposes of this fic, I'm gonna say that the DLC happened in early 1783. That way, Connor could SPOILERS! dump the Apple in the ocean SPOILERS! on his way to go visit Jenny that summer. Sorry that this breaks history, but if you enjoy AssCreed, then you're probably already used to Ubisoft smashing history apart and then gluing the little fragments together to make a positively delightful mosaic. It kinda reminds me of macaroni art or scrapbooking. Only manlier. 3 Enjoy!**_

* * *

The trio rode to the next town and rested for a few days while Caleb and Haytham were recovering from their injuries. Afterwards, they headed northeast.

Connor found himself at an odd, restless peace. Haytham was grumpy (grumpier than usual, at least), but the spats they passed back and forth were comforting in a way. His father was alive. His father was alive and he was working against the Templars. But Haytham was still far from a suitable traveling companion.

"Where are we headed?" Caleb asked Haytham, not for the first time.

"Stay behind if you don't wish to come," the elder man said curtly. "You don't have to follow me. In fact, I'd much rather that you two didn't."

"Tch, you're not getting rid of me that easily! Connor says that you need our help!" Caleb was becoming more frustrated by the day. He gripped the reins of his horse tighter and ground his teeth together.

"Do not assume what I need and don't need," Haytham grunted.

"Well, I didn't see you pullin' your own ass out of that inn fire," Caleb pointed out. "You need help."

Haytham was unruffled. "I would've found a way."

Caleb huffed. "Connor! You tell him something!"

The Native Assassin merely thought about it for a moment. "We are traveling with him out of our own volition, though doing so puts us at risk. Why are the Templars trying to kill you, Father?"

Haytham all but rolled his eyes. "Because they don't like me anymore. Haven't I already told you that, Boy?"

"Yes, but you did not clarify the reason."

"You're right—I didn't," Haytham replied stiffly. No further explanation followed.

Caleb's horse grunted a little as he flailed in exasperation. Once he finished, he paused and took a deep breath. "Well…at least there's no Templars around here. William would gut me if he knew that I was traveling with one of those cross-mongering dullards."

Haytham cleared his throat. "If you're speaking about all three of the present fellows here, then you seem to be a victim of a common misconception. I am still a Templar."

"What? Impossible. You've betrayed the Templars! That's why they're calling you a traitor and everything!" Caleb snorted.

"That's true and untrue," Haytham continued. "I still believe in my Order. I still continue to strive towards the same future as I ever have. I simply don't agree with the current methods of the Colonial Templars and thus, I will do all I can to stop them."

Caleb made a face as one of his hands slowly and unconsciously inched towards the pistol on his hip. "So you're pissed that they've taken your title away from you and now you're throwing a fit and trying to put the Order back under your thumb. Christ, I knew you were an asshole, but I didn't think that you were a psychotic dictator, too!"

"Do not assume vanity and pride over necessity," Haytham grumbled. He seemed about to leave it there, but with a reluctant sigh, he continued. "Their goal can only end in certain catastrophe, which will affect everyone, not just the Assassins. If I can stop them, then I will, even if it means dismantling my brothers one by one."

"…And how do you expect me to trust you?" Caleb asked.

"I don't."

Haytham didn't want the trust of the Assassins. That would mean that they anticipated him to be a better person and to become one of them. Such a fantasy could never happen. He could never fulfill those lofty expectations. Haytham was still a Templar at heart, and he didn't think that anything could change that.

"Templars killed my friends…" Caleb growled, caught between anger and vindication.

"And an Assassin killed mine," Haytham waved, ignoring Connor's wince, "I never asked you to help me or follow me, nor do I wish it now. Leave if you're so conflicted, Assassin."

"My friends were innocent!" Caleb shouted, making the horses uneasy. "Yours were horrible, greedy, manipulators! They deserved to die!"

"And to think, you call _me_ a bigot," the elder sniffed with disdain.

Connor put his horse between Caleb's and Haytham's. He cast a meaningful glance to his friend to stop arguing. Even though the Native could feel his own patience thin, he knew that this sort of bickering could only end in disaster. After a moment of simmering silence, the Sharpshooter spoke again, his voice carefully even.

"I'm only helping you for Connor's sake, Templar," he said. "I may not trust you for one lick, but I trust his judgment. If he's willing to follow you, if he believes in your cause, then I will go, too—if not to support him, then to protect him from you."

Haytham said nothing, nor did Caleb feel the need to elaborate. Connor couldn't help but feel oddly touched. He and Caleb had become friends during their travels, but such unwavering loyalty heartened the Assassin Mentor. He still didn't know what to expect from Haytham, but at least Caleb was willing to travel by his side for the time being.

"Thank you, Caleb," Connor nodded to the Sharpshooter. Caleb nodded to his Mentor and left it at that.

When evening fell, the group finally came upon another town. A tavern with empty beds and warm food was a welcoming thing to behold as they settled down. Caleb refused to share a room with the Templar, not that Connor could blame him, so they rented separate rooms—one for Caleb and a two-bed room for the others. Haytham retired immediately, leaving the two Assassins at the bar.

"Has he always been this…" Caleb waved his arm as if to illustrate his meaning. "…this shitty?"

The Native shrugged. "For as long as I have known him, yes," he replied "But I know that he is more than insults and bitterness. He must be. I cannot give up on him yet."

Caleb shook his head. "You really think that he can be different? You know that you can't change someone."

Connor sighed and took another drink of his water. "I have to believe in the best of him. If he is moving against his Order, then he has already become a man that I was unaware he could be. He claims to be working for the sake of peace for everyone, not just in his own name. But if he is lying…" Connor clenched his eyes shut and fought the urge to bang his forehead on the bar.

"If he's lying, we're gonna have to kill him," Caleb finished.

Connor nodded and took another drink.

"Then let's hope that he's not. Let's hope that he really has left all of that Templar nonsense behind him. To a better future, eh?" Caleb tried to lighten the mood. The sentiment was reluctant, as if he were attempting to convince himself of the possibility as much as Connor. He offered to clink his mug of ale against Connor's glass of water. With a faint smile, the Native reciprocated and knocked their glasses together.

"Yes, to a better future."

After several more drinks, Caleb's scruffy face flushed in inebriation as he began singing folk songs with an out of key, drunken chorus joining him with gusto. Connor quietly excused himself. The noise and smell of alcohol was never very appealing. When he arrived in his room, Haytham was sitting at the small desk as he finished oiling and sharpening his blades. Not a word passed between the two men. Connor sat heavily on the edge of his own bed and watched his father work on the blades with careful precision.

"Yes?" Haytham prompted after a few minutes.

Connor's brow creased as he tried to find the words to say. "Father, I…" The Assassin stood and walked behind his father. Haytham wasn't wearing a cravat. Connor could see a nasty, sprawling scar half hidden at the junction between neck and shoulder. It was still a bit pink towards the center, but the edges were pale in contrast to his father's skin. It looked as if it had been gotten infected at some point, but had ended up healing fully, if only a little stiffly. But even so, Connor knew what that wound was from.

Haytham tensed as Connor caressed the ravaged flesh.

"Is that where…?" Connor's voice was hardly above a hushed whisper.

"Where you stabbed me?" Haytham finished, brusquely shooing away the wandering hand. He stood and fixed the collar on his shirt to better cover the old wound. "Yes, it is."

Connor frowned, his eyes still lingering on the spot where the scar was concealed. "How did you survive?"

"You're lousy with a hidden blade," Haytham snorted.

The Native couldn't help the sharp sting in his pride. "And you could have done better?"

"Enough of this nonsense!" Haytham sneered. "Do you honestly expect me to sweep you up with open arms and joyfully weep for our precious reunion?! Leave me be, Boy!"

"Why!?" Connor fought to keep his temper under control. He had been teetering on a needle's edge for days. "We have another chance to start anew! Things do not have to be this way; we do not need to divide our loyalties between our blood and our allegiances!"

"Oh please. You nearly killed me and you expect me to just welcome you to my bosom!?" Haytham snarled. "Preposterous!"

"I did what I must to survive, Father," Connor's eyes narrowed dangerously as he remembered those hands around his neck. He could still feel the fear seep into his bones like ice. "You would have killed me if given the chance."

At that, Haytham hesitated. Then, with a chin held high and his voice collected, he said, "Yes. I would have. That's all the more reason for you to cease this guilty charade."

Connor's nostrils flared and his fists balled. "I do not tolerate you out of guilt, Father. You have another chance, WE have another chance."

"Another chance?" Haytham laughed cruelly. "Another chance at what? We cannot operate as father and son—that ship has already sailed, Boy! And if you mean otherwise, then you're downright sick in the head! We are of related! You could call me by any name, 'Father' or 'Haytham' or 'Templar', and it would not erase the fact that we are of blood! Just what would you hope to accomplish!?"

"I do not know!" Connor hollered, advancing on Haytham.

The old Templar's lip was raised like a hound's. "I'm happier without you, Connor."

"If you honestly believe that you are better off travelling without me…" the Assassin snarled and snatched Haytham by the collar of his shirt. "…then why are you still here?!"

Haytham head-butted Connor's nose, feeling hot blood splatter across his forehead. The Native positively roared in pain as he reeled back. The elder man struck out at his son with a hard punch to the solar plexus. "To prove to myself that I was wrong to believe in you!" Haytham scorned.

Connor deflected the next punch, ignoring the blood streaming down the front of his face and robes. "You have never believed in anything but yourself! Yourself and your precious Order!" He managed a blow to Haytham's cheek, sending the other man stumbling.

Haytham regained his footing and dodged another blow. He elbowed Connor hard in the back of the neck. "It's better than relying on the so-called goodness of men!"

Connor's jaw ached as his teeth clacked together. He nearly fell forward before he grabbed the sheets on the bed and promptly ripped them away. With nary a glance, he threw the sheet as his father. "I believe that people can change for the better!"

Haytham made a startled noise as he was distracted by the blanket. As soon as he threw it aside, Connor tackled him, driving him back into the nearest wall. His spine and head hit the wood hard enough to make his bones reverberate and he coughed as his still-injured lungs spasmed in shock. Connor used his body weight to pin Haytham firmly to the wall, his hands bruisingly tight on his father's wrists.

"Why are you so intent on pushing me away?" Connor panted, his lips dangerously close to the scar on Haytham's neck.

A sudden wave of bittersweet sorrow choked in Haytham's throat. "We cannot be family, Connor. We cannot be lovers. There is only room for animosity and hatred."

"No, I will not consider such a possibility for even a moment! There must be something more," The Assassin denied desperately. His mouth left a wandering, bloody trail of kisses on the mangled scar on Haytham's neck. He pressed himself against his father, grinding their hips together almost inquiringly. Connor dared to release one of Haytham's wrists in favor of reaching between them and groping the junction between the Templar's legs.

"This is how you want to start things anew, Connor?" Haytham chuckled venomously. "As sodomites? As incestuous sodomites?"

For all of the times that father and son had lain with each other, never had Connor been able to kiss Haytham on the mouth. This time, he managed to snag him. Their teeth clacked together and their tongues fought for dominance. Haytham broke away first, the taste of his son's blood fresh on his lips. He grinned like a demon.

"So this really is how you want it?" Haytham asked with a shallow chuckle. "Are you certain that the only reason you follow me, the only reason you want to believe in me…" Haytham leaned up to Connor's ear and snarled quietly, his voice a dark, sensuous velvet. "…isn't just for my dick?"

Connor froze, a sharp yelp strangled in his throat as Haytham's free hand savagely gripped the Assassin's balls. Haytham squeezed and didn't let go until Connor slowly removed his wandering hands and backed away.

Connor snarled something in Mohawk and turned on his heel. He wiped his still bleeding nose on the back of his sleeve, cursed at the new blood stain, and then stormed to the door. He hesitated there, faltering with his hand on the door handle.

"I missed you, Haytham," Connor struggled. "I missed you as the father that you never were, and I missed you as the mentor you could never be."

He put up his cowl again, his expression unreadable.

"For the good of all men, I must believe that even the worst of scoundrels can be redeemed," Connor said quietly, his face hidden under his hood.

Haytham bared his teeth as his son fled the room. The former Grandmaster was left with nothing but the fleeting warmth of Connor's body pressed against his chest. He spoke to the emptiness, his words hollow in the void.

"You don't wish to believe that for anyone's sake but your own, Boy."

* * *

"Oi, Connor! Wh're you goin'?" Caleb slurred as the Assassin stormed out of the tavern.

"Out."

Even though the Sharpshooter was drunk out of his skull, he knew well enough to leave his Mentor be. Judging by the blood splattered down Connor's face and collar, he and Haytham had another argument that ended with fists.

Connor ran for the nearest rooftop, using the freedom to clear his mind.

Just what was he thinking to trust Haytham?! The man was still a Templar! He was petty and angry and he obviously didn't want anything to do with Connor! And yet despite the insults, despite the irritation, Connor could see what his father was doing. Haytham was hiding something. He knew something that the Templars only guessed at and the Assassins were unaware of. If Haytham was going to use whatever knowledge to his own advantage, then Connor couldn't let him slip away. There was still the chance that Haytham was concocting his own devious schemes in the interest of his personal interpretation of Templar ethics. It wasn't an option to keep Haytham as a prisoner, either. He had to let his father call the shots or else he'd leave again.

Connor had briefly considered interrogating Haytham, but he knew that the elder man wouldn't break without drastic measures and Connor was unwilling to go that far.

But maybe Haytham wasn't plotting any deceit. Maybe he was telling the truth and he was truly acting as some sort of neutral party between the current breed of Templars and the Assassins.

Connor didn't know. He could only wait and follow and keep on his guard.

The Native wandered aimlessly around the block, leaping from roof to roof and scrambling silently through alleyways. Clinging to the shadows was safe and comforting, but sitting on a roof was pure, free bliss. He finally circled back to the tavern and took a seat next to the chimney stack.

Most of Haytham's words had faded away, but some still pestered Connor like gnats. Just what had Connor been thinking to initiate physical interaction? He missed Haytham, yes, but he didn't miss the sour attitude or the insults. He longed for the fellow from the journals to reach out to him, to tell him about his ideals of Assassins and Templars joining arms to make the world a better place. He yearned for the Haytham he read about, the one that was chivalrous and kind and full of life. He wanted to see the man that his mother fell in love with.

But that man was gone.

After he lost everything but the Templars, the world went black for Haytham. And Connor couldn't bring a dead man back to life.

He sighed, pushing back the waves of self-pity and disgust. He may not ever see the sort of man Haytham was before, but he had the Haytham of the present. This one, though stubborn and volatile and secretive, had potential. Connor wanted to see what sort of man Haytham could become. And in doing so, Connor also could learn to understand his enigmatic father.

Maybe he could even forgive him.

Maybe he could even be forgiven.

For all of their loss, for all of their dark lusts, they were two strangers lost in a storm with nothing to hold onto but each other.

After a few moments more, Connor retreated back to the tavern. While the party itself had been anything but pretty, the aftermath was downright obnoxious. Most of the participants were unconscious or else slurring drunkenly in a corner while the barkeep prodded at people with his broom to clear them out.

"No, Iz don think you undershtand, Connor!" Caleb slurred nearly unintelligibly as the Mentor helped him to the rented room. "I luff youz. I luff youz soooooo~OOOOOOO much! Yourz the bestz! And if youz wasn't a man, I'z kissh youz!"

Connor ignored the slobbery kissy face that Caleb made anyways and deposited him gracelessly to the bed. Caleb wiggled his way under the covers like a disoriented worm and was snoring by the time Connor left. Good. At least if Caleb was unconscious, then he couldn't overhear Connor and Haytham from the next room over. The two were bound to argue and some words were best not overheard.

He stood outside of his own rented room, almost tempted to knock. Perhaps Haytham would be gone. Connor had noticed the rather flighty unrest in his father. He took a deep breath, preparing for the worst, and entered the dark room.

The candles had been blown out long ago, leaving the room a pitch black. Connor allowed his eyes to adjust for a second before sweeping over the beds. Haytham was there, feigning sleep. Connor slowly let out the breath that he had been holding and smiled. Haytham hadn't run. He disrobed, making a mental note to scrub the new bloodstains well in the morning. Wearing nothing but his breeches, he climbed into the single bed behind his father.

"…We rented a two bed room for a reason, Boy," Haytham grumbled irately.

"I know," Connor responded, pressing his chest against his father's back. Haytham stiffened, but made no move to escape. The Native grimaced. Could he do this? His work was violent by nature, but never cruel. Suddenly, not giving himself time to think, he rolled Haytham onto his stomach and straddled his thighs. He used his full body weight to push Haytham into the mattress, pressing on his ribcage hard—hard enough to make Haytham cough.

"Wh!" Haytham struggled, his hands fruitlessly reaching back for Connor.

Connor leaned down, forcing his father further into the sheets, and spoke against the shell of Haytham's ear. "You were right. We cannot be family, but we still cannot be anything except for family. So we will play that charade in the day, father of mine. But at night, when we are alone, I want you for myself."

Connor released some of the pressure on Haytham's chest so he could breathe easier and snaked his hand to the Templar's crotch. "My father died. I killed him. We cannot be father and son, but we can be Haytham and Connor."

The Native kneaded at the flesh, attempting to awaken it while ignoring Haytham's snarling protests. He lewdly rolled his hips against his father's backside, thankful for the darkness to hide the blush blooming across his face. After a moment, Haytham seemed to no longer sense life-threatening danger. With the panic ebbed, he lightly tried to roll Connor off of his back.

Haytham chuckled darkly, throwing a backwards glance over his shoulder. "So you really did miss me for my dick."

"Yes." Connor gave a meaningful, languid rub to Haytham's clothed cock. "But that is not all I missed you for."

Haytham's breath hitched and he made a disgruntled sound as he tried to turn onto his side. Connor obeyed the unspoken wish and finally rolled off of his father. The moment that he settled beside him, he reached out again for the hem of Haytham's breeches and untied the lace.

"This is unwise. We will only drown each other, Connor," Haytham's voice was strangled, even as he followed suit and undid the laces of his son's breeches.

Connor felt a sad smile tug on his lips as he scooted closer to his father. "We have already sunk to the bottom of the ocean, Haytham. The only place we can go is up."

Haytham's hand stroked his son's engorged dick. "You're a vile person."

"I know," Connor fisted his father's cock. "You are, too."

Haytham pressed his face into his son's shoulder and rocked his hips into the touch. His own hand was already slick with precum as he played with Connor's foreskin. "…I know."

Connor kissed the scar on Haytham's neck again while he fondled the heavy balls in his hand. Not another word was passed between them as they stroked and tugged and pet each other. It was not an ideal reunion, and it was not vindication for their wrongdoings. But for the moment, it was enough. It was enough to feel Haytham surge against him, his hand still firm and warm and welcoming on Connor's cock, as their breaths panted into the stale air like wordless prayers.

Haytham came first with a low, satisfied groan before Connor tilted his own head back and spilled. The killers milked each other, biting back the grunts and the moans like naughty secrets, until there was nothing left but the shells of two broken men.

* * *

The next day, the trio moved on despite Caleb's walloping hangover.

"Maybe it's still the drink in my blood, but I daresay that you two are almost gettin' along," Caleb pointed out. Haytham and Connor were both sporting split lips and black eyes.

"We've reached an understanding," Haytham said curtly. Connor nodded.

Bewilderment was cornerstone in Caleb's expression, but he let it be. At least they could get through a whole day without bickering, which was just fine by the Sharpshooter. He hated hangovers.

* * *

It wasn't until late September that the three men finally reached their destination. Connor had heard of it, but he had never visited.

Fort Stanwix.

It stood along the Oneida Carry, where traders from the Mohawk River and the Wood Creek River would meet and barter. The star-shaped fort was built to protect such a cornerstone of trade from whichever enemy the current dwellers deemed.

"Wow…this place is kind of a dump…" Caleb whistled.

But it had been burned to the ground.

The once supposedly majestic fort was a hulking mass of half-collapsed rubble. A handful of buildings and barracks seemed to be in working order, but only just. As the three men approached what was left of the main gate, they were halted from a fellow with a bent shotgun standing atop the remains of the rampart.

"Oi! What're you want 'ere?" he called to them. "You 'ere for the treaty?"

"Yes, we are!" Haytham called up to the fellow.

"You gents don' look like no represent'ives…" he said doubtfully, but lowered his gun.

"We're not. We are merely spectators."

"Ah! More eyes for the oglin', more gullets for the fillin', then! Alright, in ya go!" the gatekeeper waved them inside the fort. There were impromptu lean-tos and shacks lined up and down outside of the barracks. People, both Colonist and Native milled about, most in a drunken stupor.

"Father, what is the meaning of this?" Connor hissed.

"Honestly," Haytham used the toe of his boot to shoo a drunkard away from his horse, "I have no bloody idea."

"The gatekeeper mentioned a treaty," Caleb offered.

"Tch, I just wanted to get inside the gate. I knew that this place had been burned down, but I had no idea that it's become..." Haytham waved his hand to the disarray about him. "…this! Come. The quicker that we complete our task, then the sooner we can be out of here."

They tethered their horses in a small barn and set out. Along the way, shady merchants dealing cheap booze tried to get their attention. Caleb turned his nose up.

"Ugh! Even I wouldn't drink this piss!" he exclaimed.

The Assassins followed Haytham as he moved through a hallway in the underground barracks and suddenly stopped. He scrutinized the wall in a way that Connor knew what he was doing. Haytham was using his Eagle Vision. Connor also activated his and soon spotted a shining brick in the wall. Haytham spotted it at the same time and set his hand on it. After checking around to make certain no one was witness, he pressed the brick in.

The stone moved easily, depressing itself into the wall until they heard a soft click. Then, a few bricks by their feet shifted and slid aside. Haytham grabbed a lantern from the wall and held it out to his son.

"After you," Haytham said to Connor.

"Why must I crawl in first?" he asked.

"Well someone must make certain that the tunnel is safe!"

Connor deadpanned at his father, but took the lantern and crawled in first anyways. It led deep into the foundation of the fort until it opened up into a larger chamber. He stood, glancing about for structural damage and finding none.

"The way is clear!" Connor called back down the tunnel. A moment later, Haytham and Caleb joined him in the chamber.

"What is this place?" Caleb asked, touching some of the Templar insignias etched intricately on the wall.

"I had this secret chamber built some years ago," Haytham said, searching for another hidden door.

"Why?"

"To protect something. Ah, here it is." The elder man pushed on the wall until it rotated aside. Ahead was another hallway, this one far more dilapidated than the last.

At the end of the hall was an ornate stone doorway, filled with rubble.

"Shit!" Haytham cursed. He knelt down and prodded at some of the fallen rocks. They were packed in hard, making digging through them an impossible option without risking collapse. He stood again, screwing up his eyes to use his Eagle Vision.

Connor followed suit. His regular Eagle Vision revealed nothing out of the ordinary, but when he pushed his eyes to use his Eagle Sense, he spotted an old, faded trail leading into the next room. He blinked the world away and glanced at Haytham. The Templar was seeing something else, seeing something past what Connor's eyes could.

"What does it mean, Father?" Connor asked.

"Someone's been here before us," he grumbled. Haytham blinked again and rubbed at his temples tenderly. "It's gone. It was stolen and the thief blew the doorway. I can't see it inside anymore."

Caleb looked around, obviously confused. "See…what?"

Haytham waved his hand dismissively. "We'll go around. The exit leads topside. When we get up there, we'll backtrack to see if the thief left any clues behind."

"You must have commissioned workers to make these tunnels. Could they have betrayed the location?" Connor asked.

Haytham snorted. "No."

"How can you be certain?"

"Three men can keep a secret if two are dead," the Templar admitted. Both Assassins grimaced, but let it be for the moment.

"How recent do you believe this burglary to be, Father?" Connor inquired. The trail that his Eagle Sense had revealed had been faint and old.

Haytham sighed. "It was probably stolen a few years ago, but if it fell into the wrong hands, I'd like to think that we would've noticed by now. So perhaps the thief didn't get far. Maybe the tunnels crushed him before he could escape."

"The item is dangerous, then. What is it?" Connor prodded again.

Haytham ignored the question.

"Father, how can I help you if I do not know what it is I am looking for? If or when you recover this item, I will see it anyway."

This time, Haytham sighed as he paused in the open chamber. "It is a weapon left behind by a race of people long dead. It has the ability to control the will of men and to produce some sort of metaphysical assault on whoever the user deems necessary. It can create illusions and drive the user mad with power."

Connor gave a sharp intake of breath. "Is it small and round, with strange glowing gold symbols?" he asked.

Haytham paused and narrowed his eyes at the Assassin. "You have seen it, then?"

"Perhaps. Is it called an Apple?"

"Perhaps…" Haytham tensed.

An unsteady silence crept between the two men until Caleb spoke up. "So...it's a weapon. Why do you need a weapon of such magnitude?"

"I do not. If I was going to use the item to manipulate humanity, then I would have done so years ago and we wouldn't be having this discussion," Haytham snapped and regarded his son once more. "But I repeat, have you seen it?"

"If you do not intend to use the Apple, Father, then why do you want it now?" Connor's fist clenched as he prepared to eject his hidden blade.

Haytham noticed the tension in Connor's arm, even from his peripheral. He squared his shoulders and softened his knees almost imperceptibly in anticipation. "I spent many years keeping these items a secret from other Templars. Now, they know of the artifacts, but not the specific locations."

"That is why they want you and your journal," Connor affirmed.

Haytham gave a short nod. "I only hid this one artifact. There are many others still out there, and I must destroy them before they fall into the wrong hands."

"I know why you don't want the Templars to have these weapons, but why not hand them over to the Assassins?" Caleb asked, his hand on the barrel of the pistol on his belt.

The Templar snorted and fought the urge to roll his eyes. "The Assassins are no better than Templars. The artifacts can still be fought over, can still be abused. The only way to prevent such catastrophe is to destroy them."

"I agree." Connor nodded, his posture finally relaxing. "George Washington came in possession of the Apple after the Siege of Yorktown in 1781. He never used it for ill will, but there was the possibility of it. The Apple showed us both…visions—visions of what could have been if even a good man became corrupted by the weapon's power. Washington put the Apple in my care and I sank it in the middle of the ocean last year."

Haytham considered this. Yorktown, Virginia was a great distance from Fort Stanwix, but to his knowledge, there was no other Apple in the Colonies. The only other artifacts were the amulet and whatever lay inside of the precursor site. There was a likely possibility that a thief stole the Apple from Fort Stanwix and traveled south.

The thief used explosives to access the Apple hidden in the Fort, which would explain why the fort mysteriously caught fire and burned to the ground. Haytham never received updates about Stanwix's destruction, primarily due to the fact that everyone thought that he was dead. But now that he knew, he could logically trace the Apple's path. Most of the ports in the Colonies were primarily under Assassin influence by late 1781, but the influence of hundreds of ports in Chesapeake Bay constantly shifted, no matter the era. Sometimes, it was under the Templars, sometimes under Assassins, sometimes British or rebel or pirate. So the thief probably went to Chesapeake Bay and somehow got caught up in the battle of Yorktown.

And from there, the Apple went to George Washington, who coveted it for years. Then finally, Connor supposedly put the weapon to rest in the depths of the Atlantic.

"You are certain that you weighted it enough and threw it in the deepest part of the sea?" Haytham inquired.

"I am certain," Connor's response was unwavering.

Haytham searched his eyes for the truth, and once satisfied, he finally relaxed. "Then let us check the exit tunnel to confirm that the Apple is no longer here, and then we will be on our way again.

They exited the hidden chamber as nonchalantly as possible and weaved around the outside of the fort. In a pile of bedrock was a small cave that looked something like a bear's den with hidden doors embedded in the back wall. They investigated it, only to find that deep inside, the walls and ceiling were collapsed. Haytham used his eyes to see past the rocks and confirmed that the Apple was nowhere in sight.

They returned to the fort for a spot of rest, but Connor's curiosity had him oddly anxious. After eating, the Mentor decided to survey the area. There were many Natives inhabiting the destroyed fort, mostly Oneida by the looks of it. There were also Colonists and a few members of other Iroquois tribes apparently staying in some temporary, makeshift housing. The gatekeeper had spoken of a treaty, so perhaps was it one to be made between the newly founded United States and his people.

As he was walking around, Connor spotted a Mohawk man dressed in a combination of traditional and Colonial attire. The man also wore a gustoweh. The cap was well decorated with many smaller feathers on the top, and three large eagle feathers standing upright in the back, signifying his status as one of the political chiefs for the Mohawk tribe in the Iroquois Confederacy. The man was staring intently into the campfire, obviously caught in thought.

"Excuse me," Connor said in his Mohawk tongue. "Do you have a moment?"

The Mohawk man glanced up at Connor, and smiled. "Can I help you, Brother?" he asked in his own Native tongue.

Connor fidgeted just a bit. "Yes. My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton," he introduced. "I have been traveling for some time and came to rest at this shell of a fort. But I have heard whispers and declarations of some sort of treaty to take place here, and now I see you, a member of the Iroquois Confederacy. What is happening?"

"You may call me Joseph Brant," The Mohawk representative stood and regarded Connor with a raised eyebrow. "What clan are you from?"

"Kanatahséton," the Assassin replied proudly, fully aware of the implications.

"Ah, that would make sense. Your clan fled north last year, if I properly recall. I am from the Wolf," Brant clapped Connor on the shoulder. "We really are like brothers!"

The Assassin subtly edged away from the unexpected contact and frowned. The Mohawk Tribe was divided into three primary clans: the Turtle, the Bear, and the Wolf. These clans were considered rivals and it wasn't uncommon for them to fight each other. The only exception was Connor's clan. Hundreds of years ago, it was a special branch of the Wolf that broke away from the other clans in order to protect the Precursor site. They were left out of the clan battles and remained blissfully uninvolved with the majority of Mohawk politics.

"Yes, it seems we are," Connor dubiously agreed. "Please tell me about this treaty."

"Very well, let's walk," Joseph led the way. "It seems that the oh-so-esteemed Britain has left the Natives' land completely out of the Treaty of Paris that ended the war. Simply put, the land we claim as ours is no longer recognized as ours, despite every drop of blood, every tear, every single effort! The Colonists—no, the Americans—are fighting us for it, but no one has the resources for war any longer. The new congress has called the Iroquois Confederacy together in this excuse of a shamble to talk of peace and negotiate land.

"This 'treaty' is nothing but a mockery. The boundary forged in the Fort Stanwix land treaty of 1768 should still stand. We have people who live on those lands! Our people! And there is no being on this world that has the right to sell away others' homes to an infant government. We are in no place to negotiate boundaries, but the United States representatives haven't even arrived yet for us to inform them. Tardiness is very poor fashion, particularly in such a horrible locale," Joseph Brant finished bitterly.

Connor may not have cared for the man, but he did understand the fellow's frustration. "Do you believe that the Congress representatives are late specifically to break down your morale?"

Joseph Brant nodded. "Yes. Though I'd like to believe that something has just 'come up', I cannot excuse such unprofessionalism. And to think! They would have us stay in such squalor as this!" Brant motioned to the drunkards and the shambly lean-tos. "But if we leave, then the Congressional representatives may interpret the move as belligerent. Our people cannot survive another war, and more so, they don't WANT one. So we are left to our devices and all we can do is hope that the proper representatives arrive soon."

Connor frowned. He wanted to volunteer to help Joseph Brant. Perhaps he could find the tardy representatives or maybe he could talk sense into them or…something. But he shouldn't. Connor knew that he shouldn't get involved with the politics that lay outside of his influence. His people had already moved on, leaving behind the other clans and tribes in their wake. He didn't have anyone left to protect. Even though the Mohawk were his people, they also were not. He was not of the Wolf or the Bear or the Turtle clans. Although he could marry into a clan, or even another tribe, he couldn't spare the time or risk the danger. His life lay with the Assassins.

Joseph Brant noticed Connor's rather somber mood and sighed despite himself. He clapped the Assassin on the back again, earning himself a subtle, harmless glare. "Enough dramatics. Are you traveling alone, Brother? I'm sure that I can wrangle up some lodging for you and whoever you may be with."

Connor shook his head. "No, I have two companions."

"Oh! Then you'll introduce me then! Are they also from Kanatahséton?"

"No. One man is a Colonist and hunter. The other is my father. He hails from Britain, but I suppose he should be considered a Colonist at this point," Connor smiled a little.

"Ah! They're called Americans now! Not Colonists!" Joseph prodded lightheartedly.

Connor nodded. He had been prepared for Joseph to shun the notion of Connor's father being British, but the Mohawk man didn't seem to care. "Yes, Americans."

Heartened, Connor led the way back to the campfire that Caleb and Haytham were relaxing at. The two men were bickering half-heartedly about some inane thing when Joseph Brant's sharp intake of breath caught their attention.

"I don't believe my eyes…" Brant said in flawless English, awed. Connor was about to ask just what was so incredulous when Haytham stood and nodded to the other man.

Haytham negligibly narrowed his eyes as he scrutinized the Mohawk representative. "Good evening. You are Joseph Brant, correct?" Haytham reluctantly acknowledged.

"Haytham Kenway," Brant brushed by Connor to shake hands with the Templar. "How is this possible? I'd heard that you were dead!"

"That does seem to be the common misconception," Haytham's lips were pressed together in a thin line. "How's Molly and the children?"

"Molly never seemed to really recover from William's murder, but she's still pushing along. She did all she could during the war," Brant replied. "What brings you here? Are you traveling with Ratonhnhaké:ton?"

Haytham glanced to Connor, the briefest of gazes promising retribution for bringing this upon them. "Yes, he is my son."

"I didn't know that you had a son! A Mohawk one, at that!"

"Mm, yes. Honestly, until a few years ago I had no idea that I had a son either. His mother and I…parted ways before he was born."

Haytham thankfully kept the venom from his voice when he addressed the Assassin. "Connor, I've no doubt that Joseph has introduced himself already, but all the same, he is a longtime family friend of William Johnson. You do remember William, yes?"

Connor tried his best not to pale as he nodded.

"Ah yes, William was such a magnificent friend and brother!" Joseph Brant embellished. "When I was a lad, William frequently stayed at my family home and helped refine my English. He even funded my education and nearly my college as well! It wasn't much of a surprise when he and my sister married, though perhaps it was more surprising that it took them so long."

Great. Connor was standing in the presence of the brother-in-law of a Templar he murdered nearly a decade ago. While the Assassin wasn't necessarily fearful of what Joseph Brant would do to him if he found out, he did feel guilty. Connor had murdered a Templar—one that needed to die! But William Johnson hadn't been just dedicated to the silent war. He had a family. He had a wife and numerous children judging by the tales Joseph Brant was regaling Haytham with. Connor didn't just kill a Templar; he murdered a husband, a father, and a mentor.

But what if Johnson tutored Brant as more than a politician? Connor flicked his Eagle Vision on. Joseph Brant didn't glow at all. He was not red or blue or gold or white. He was merely a civilian. Connor breathed a mild sigh of relief. At least William Johnson had never recruited Brant to the Templar cross.

As Haytham and Brant sat back down to catch up, Connor scooted close to Caleb. The Sharpshooter was warily looking back and forth between Joseph Brant and Connor. Then, ever so quietly, he whispered. "Hey, what's that all about?"

Connor barely moved his lips as he spoke. "I…disposed of William Johnson in 1775. He was a Templar and apparently Joseph Brant's brother-in-law."

Caleb froze and slid his hand to his pistol. Connor shook his head ever so slightly and Caleb left the pistol alone. "Civilian?"

Connor nodded.

"This guy knows Haytham," Caleb whispered after another moment. "What if he spreads the word around that your dad's still alive when there's Templars chasing him left and right?"

"We cannot kill him, not even if he unintentionally reveals us. Too many Native people depend on him to preserve their land."

"Then what should we do?"

Connor sighed and looked everywhere but the campfire in front of him. "We will ride out at dawn."


	12. Chapter 11

The trio left hours before dawn. The air was damp and chilly and quiet save for the snores of the drunken Natives and Colonists strewn throughout the fort. Once they were past the dilapidated front gates, they headed down the portage road, towards the Mohawk River. There, they hoped to catch a boat.

Connor's chest was heavy with worry. He wanted to help the Iroquois negotiate the treaty, but he knew that it wasn't his place.

"Stop moping, Boy," Haytham grumbled. He was particularly irate having only gotten a couple hours of sleep after Joseph Brant talked his ear off near through the night.

"I have a right to worry about my people," Connor bit.

"The Natives aren't your people anymore," Haytham sniffed. "I'd wonder how you could possibly not know that, but then I remember that you're surprisingly short sighted."

Connor bristled. "I choose my own allegiances, Father. My people are who I deem."

"You already chose the Brotherhood over your own clan long ago! You can't possibly live in both worlds."

"Christ!" Caleb interrupted in a harsh whisper, "Will both of you just shut up?!"

Haytham and Connor both looked to him and in an instant, they realized that the Sharpshooters words were born from more than mild irritation. The brush along the sides of the road was suddenly too still and far too quiet. The morning birds ceased singing to the impending dawn and the crickets stopped chirping away the morning dew.

Wariness easily replaced discontent. Both men prepared, their guns loaded and their blades primed.

"Keep your eyes and ears open, guys," Caleb looked around, his pistol at the ready. "I don't like how quiet it is out here."

"Lad, get to a high point," Haytham quietly murmured to the Sharpshooter. "Connor and I will move in on foot while you cover us."

"Move in three…" Connor discreetly pulled out a smoke bomb. "Two." He primed it. "One!"

The smoke bomb hit the ground with a snap and a hiss before billowing gray clouds poured out. The horses immediately reared and whinnied and gunshots thundered through the air. Within seconds, the horses ran from the commotion, all three of them without a rider.

"They're in the trees!" someone yelled from the brush before being shot by one of Caleb's precise bullets.

Another Templar screamed as Haytham's blade sliced through his chest. On the other side of the road, Connor was creeping through the brush and slitting throats with nary a noise.

Gunfire and the gurbles of dying men filled the air until finally all that remained was a single Templar. He had been shot in the leg and he was desperately trying to drag himself away, gibbering madly and crying.

Haytham swept up to him like a wraith. He stepped on the Templar's leg, the heel of his boot grinding into the oozing bullet hole. The Templar screamed as fresh tears tore a warpath down his dirty cheeks.

"Good morning, Sir," Haytham started. He crouched down, casually throwing the stranger's gun and sword aside. "I was hoping that you had a spot of information for me."

"Ohgodohgod don't kill me! I'll talk, I'll talk!" the Templar blubblered, and rightly so.

"Yes, you will." Haytham smiled unpleasantly. "Tell me, lad, why are you here?"

"I'm j-just following orders!" he whined piteously. "W-we were told to keep an eye out for suspicious fellows coming from the fort!"

"And just what constitutes as 'suspicious fellows'?"

"Sa-Savages! We were told to attack and capture any savages that c-come down the road! And-and if we were to spot an injun traveling with an old man and a guy w-with a gun fetish, then we were told to sh-shoot on sight!"

"And who gives you such orders?"

At this, the Templar's willingness seemed to be wearing thin. Trembling like a newborn deer, he turned his head to the side. Haytham sighed and yanked off the man's filthy cravat. Then, he shoved it against the fellow's mouth and pressed on the man's leg again, right above the bullet hole. The wound oozed with fresh, dark blood and the Templar screamed. His cries were stifled behind the piece of cloth, but his eyes were wide and dilated with agony. Tears poured down his face and his nose ran like a well pump.

Haytham removed the cravat with his bloody hand, allowing the fellow a moment to catch his breath.

"Your commander?" he prompted smoothly.

The man shook his head again and Haytham repeated the same punishment until the muffled screams began to sound like words. The elder man removed the cravat.

"El-Eleanor!" the Templar wheezed, his lips shaking and teeth chattering in fear. "Eleanor Mallow!"

Haytham gripped the man's jaw hard, squishing his cheeks in a vice grip. "Where is she?"

"O-on her way to the fort!" he slurred. "She's s-s-set to arrive today, from W-Wood Creek Riv-ver! Oh god, please don't kill me! I told you all I kn-know!"

Satisfied with the answer, Haytham sneered and released the fellow's jaw. He stood and drew his pistol. "I must thank you for your cooperation, Sir. Good day."

Haytham barely leveled his gun at the Templar when Connor interfered. He pushed Haytham's arm to the side.

"No, Father. This man does not deserve to die," the Native Assassin declared.

"He's the master of his own downfall, Boy. Being a Templar isn't a game and one shouldn't treat it so insincerely. He understands the implications of failure," Haytham sneered.

"He could still change, Father. If he survives this day, then he could become something more!"

"And do you think that he would offer you the same generosity were your positions switched? Ha, even if we don't kill him, then Eleanor Mallow will. He's betrayed them and you already know how the Templars handle traitors," Haytham growled. "You claim that sparing him would be merciful, but I beg to differ. True mercy would be to end his suffering now."

"I cannot allow you to do that," Connor implored. "Please, think about it! If the right thing to do was always easy, then there would be more good men in the world. Even as a Templar, do you not believe in a righteous course of action?"

Haytham frowned at Connor, his brow twitching in frustration. After a moment that seemed to stretch forever, with the injured Templar moaning and sobbing quietly in the background, Haytham finally lowered his pistol.

"Then you deal with it," he huffed and stormed off to find the horses.

Connor sighed in relief and bent down to wrap the bullet hole in the man's leg with the discarded cravat. It wasn't much, but it would hold until they got medical attention.

"I must take him back to a doctor," Connor grumbled. "But you and Haytham need to move on. It is too dangerous for all three of us to travel together while we are this close to the fort. We can rendezvous in a few days."

"Then I'll do it, then. I'll take this fucker back," Caleb volunteered. Connor glanced at him, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"I said I'll do it!" the Sharpshooter pressed again. "If that bitch, is going to be coming up the road later today, then you and your dad need to stop her before she reaches the fort or spy on her or whatever it is you do! Besides, I'm lower profile than either of you. Not as many people will bat so much as an eye to a couple of hunters who had an accident! But a half Native will surely garner some attention, and Haytham's already been recognized by one of the most talkative people I think I've ever heard!"

Connor frowned in consideration.

"I'll go, Connor. And while I'm there, I might be able to gather me some information. Mallow is headed to Fort Stanwix, probably for that treaty, but she could also have something to do with the missing artifact," he pushed again.

Finally, the Mentor conceded with a nod of his head.

"Very well. But whatever happens, Caleb, do not engage the enemy," Connor ordered.

Caleb smiled. "Yes, Sir."

Once Haytham returned with at least one of the missing horses, Connor sent Caleb on his way. The Sharpshooter left behind most of his arsenal, taking only a rifle, a pistol, and a small hunting knife. He had shoved his coat and hat into his bedroll and had quickly shaved his beard with a straight razor.

"Do I look different enough?" he asked once he mounted the horse. The injured Templar was still moaning piteously as he rode in front of Caleb, too weak to hold onto the reins himself.

"Yes. We will meet you at the tunnel exit at dusk." Connor nodded and Haytham brooded. With a jaunty wave, Caleb spurred his horse down the path and back to the fort.

Connor and Haytham then split up. Connor did reconnaissance on the other portage road as Haytham wrangled up the remaining two horses. They met back at the cave outside of the hidden tunnel exit.

"There are Templars everywhere," Connor said as he helped to take the saddlebags from their horses. He stashed the bags away behind the hidden door in the den. "They are patrolling up and down the road for the better part of a mile."

"So we won't be able to get close without being caught," Haytham affirmed.

"Correct."

"Lovely," Haytham said dryly. "Are there any decent vantage points we can use?"

Connor thought hard for a moment and nodded.

"Good, then we'll keep an eye on her movements with a spyglass. With any luck, we can manage to wait until the regiments form a patterned watch. Then, we can plan our moves and infiltrate the fort as discreetly as possible," Haytham explained. Finished with unpacking the horses, he turned them loose and then sat on the dirt floor of the den. Connor was about to suggest that they move into position early, but he reminded himself of his father's age. Though Haytham was spry, he was still older than he looked. Without a word, Connor sat on the ground opposite his father.

"How did Malllow come into possession of your journal?" Connor asked.

Haytham took off his hat and rested his head back against the wall. "I was careless. I thought that I had evaded her troops until one of her—if you'll pardon the term—assassins surprised me. I was attacked, and while I escaped with my life, I lost the journal. You even met the fellow, brief as the encounter was. He was a killer with an impressive reputation for murdering Assassins, who dubbed himself The Coyote Man. Do you recall the rather overcooked Native responsible for the inn fire? That was him."

Connor wrinkled his nose as he remembered the awful stench of the blackened, cracked flesh and the heat of the ash-ridden air. "The Coyote Man nearly succeeded in killing you."

"Ah, but he didn't do a very good job of it, now did he?" Haytham put his hat back on.

Connor smirked, but refrained from reminding his father of the daring rescue.

"We first encountered Eleanor Mallow in a Templar ammunition convoy. She was disguised as a boy and hiding amongst the powder kegs," Connor was eager to steer the topic away from burning buildings and crispy murderers.

Haytham grunted. "She was probably hoping that I'd be actively searching for her and the journal and that I'd try to sabotage Templar weapon stores to draw her out. She was trying to set me up."

"Were you seeking your journal?" Connor asked.

"Tch, no."

"Why not?"

"As I've said before, Boy, the Templars won't be able to translate it without my help. It's useless to them, nothing but kindle with foreign writing," Haytham waved his hand.

"What would you do if the Templars cracked the code in your journal?"

"That won't happen, and even if it did, the journal would still be useless to them."

"But it could happen," Connor pointed out.

Haytham snorted and shook his head. "Are you deaf or dull, Boy!?"

"Neither!" Connor snapped. "If the Templars manage to translate the journal without you, then they will have access to the locations of other Pieces of Eden! How is that not cause for concern!?"

"Because there is nothing to be concerned about! Let them have it! Let them translate it! That damn book will still yield nothing!" Haytham barked.

Connor narrowed his eyes. "What else are you not telling me, Father?"

Haytham raised the corner of his lip. "Pray tell, whatever do you mean?" he feigned ignorance.

The silence in the den was thick and heavy, each man ready to attack and defend at once. But such animosity was getting them nowhere. After a few moments, Connor slumped against the rock wall again, forcing the tension from his shoulders.

"What are we going to do?" Connor sighed.

"About what?" Haytham asked.

Connor motioned with his hand. "Us."

The elder man snorted again and leaned his head back. "Cross that bridge when it comes, Boy. For now, I'd much rather focus on ridding the world of Eleanor Mallow and recovering my journal."

Connor nodded at the sentiment. Even though he wished for a solution, he could wait another day. Concentrating on the mission was more important and they could only make one step at a time. After a few more minutes of rest, they left the small den. Stationed in tall trees and camouflaged by foliage, the duo spied on the Templar movements. About midday, Eleanor Mallow finally made her appearance.

She rode on horseback down the portage road, surrounded by other infantrymen. The Templar wore a modified Redcoat uniform. It was tailored to her body, finally giving her frame the feminine curves that she hid for so long, and the red parts had been dyed black to hide the coat's origins. Most importantly, she wore a pouch on her hip that was big enough to fit the stolen journal. By her side was a man dressed far too nicely to be a soldier or cannon fodder. They would keep an eye on him. Connor and Haytham lost sight of her as she moved into the fort. The Assassin could only hope that his friend went unrecognized. Although Caleb might not be noticeable to the average man, Mallow was very familiar with him. If she caught so much as a glance at the Sharpshooter, then there was no doubt that she'd either kill him or capture him or both.

Haytham and Connor kept watching the patrols until nearly sunset. They quickly scrambled back to the den, ensuring that they weren't followed, and waited anxiously for Caleb. Much to Connor's relief, the Sharpshooter returned just before dusk.

"Shit, I don't think that I've ever seen so many Templars in one place before!" he groused. "You guys aren't gonna believe this shit. Well…okay, maybe the old goat will believe it."

Haytham rolled his eyes. "Out with it."

"Okay, okay," Caleb paced back and forth, still riding the adrenaline high. "The governor of New York, George Clinton, is a Templar. At least, I'm pretty damn sure that he is. He came riding in with Mallow and started ordering people around. Hell, he even demanded that he speak to the Iroquois reps immediately! Demanded!"

Caleb ran his hand through his hair. "Basically, the other Congress representatives are still running late. They won't be here for another few days yet. But this fucker, he's here and he's trying to make illegitimate treaties with the Natives!"

"Templars are trying to take control of Iroquois lands?" Connor asked. "I am not surprised."

"Yeah, pretty much. And you know your new buddy, Joseph Brant? Yeah, he pretty much told Clinton to fuck off. I followed the Templar fucker around after his little meeting and he didn't sound too happy. He talked to Mallow and she wasn't too pleased either."

Connor, though somewhat removed from the dealings of his tribes, still felt insulted by the Templar's underhanded tactic, both as a Native and as an Assassin. "They are likely planning to kill Joseph Brant."

"Of course," Haytham added. "Doing so would only make an example out of him. Since they obviously are only as persuasive as pigs in heat, they're going to resort to violence to intimidate the other tribes into signing a false treaty."

"They're gonna move soon, I think," Caleb added, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "If the real representatives are only a couple days away, then the Templars have only got 'til then to get their signatures that sign the land over and get the hell outta here. I hope you guys have a bright idea."

"We have a general plan," Connor said.

"Lemme guess, it involves a whole bunch of guesswork, a little luck, and a helluva lot of improvising?"

"Yes, something like that."

* * *

Joseph Brant jerked at the sound of gunshots echoing over the treetops, his hand nearly knocking over the inkpot on his desk. Even though the newly arrived soldiers had spun some tale about fending off vagabond attacks in the night, Brant suspected otherwise. He didn't know exactly who these people were or where their goals lay, but he knew for certain that they were up to no good. He kept his suspicions out of the formal letter he was writing to rebuff Governor George Clinton's passive-aggressive attempt to negotiate a one-sided peace treaty. Brant was one of the few people awake at this late hour, save for the drunkards singing off key around the campfire. Yet it was still no surprise as Connor, the half Native stranger who had left in the night, suddenly burst into Joseph Brant's quarters.

"Sir, my deepest apologies for interrupting at this late hour, but we must leave. You are not safe here!" Connor urged. He was wearing his friend's brown coat and hat in favor of the white robes from before.

Joseph Brant sighed and set his pen aside. "No, I don't suppose that I am," he said, surprisingly calm. He had expected _something_ from this strange lad, but not quite this. He stood and quickly slipped on an overcoat. "I don't suppose that you're going to kill me, Ratonhnhaké:ton," he started, "but if not you, then who? Is it George Clinton?"

"We will talk later. For now, we must move," Connor peeked around the edge of the door. More gunshots fired in the distance.

Joseph Brant grabbed his gun and sword and swept out the door with the Assassin. "I'll let it slide this time, but I expect a full explanation once this is over."

"I do not know if I would be in a position to provide one," Connor admitted as he mounted his horse.

Brant didn't care for such a vague answer, but he could pry the information later. For now, there was apparently fleeing to be had.

Connor and Brant led their horses through the wilderness. Although the portage road was far safer footing for their horses, they had to risk the danger of a misstep over the possibility of being attacked. The horizon was still thundering with gunfire and teeming with smoke. The journey to the Mohawk River was tedious and silent and Joseph Brant couldn't help but notice Connor's intensity. The young man was tense, but prepared, like a wolf stalking his prey while a bear was breathing down his spine. Brant couldn't help but admire what a fine warrior this lad was. Haytham Kenway should be proud to have such a capable son.

When they came closer to the river, Connor motioned for silence and then dismounted his horse. Joseph Brant followed the lad through the bushes and peered out at the docks. Connor finally broke the silence with a quiet curse.

"There are too many enemies to pass by unnoticed," Connor whispered.

"You're trying to send me downriver?" Brant asked, somewhat offended. "You know that I can't allow that."

"Remaining at the fort is too dangerous," Connor argued. "These people would see you dead."

"These strangers you speak of can step in line," Joseph Brant snorted. "I assume they want to kill me because I'm not rolling over like a dog?"

Connor nodded.

"Then that's all the more reason that I need to stay at Fort Stanwix, Connor," Brant shook his head. "I don't know who these scoundrels are, but if they're trying to force our peoples' hand by inciting a war then I need to stay behind, if not to kill such arrogant miscreants, then to give our people hope."

"You need not resort to martyrdom," Connor said as he moved silently through the brush and back to the horses.

"Ah, but the white men love martyrs. They even made an entire religion based off of one!" Brant laughed. "But I have no intention of dying, particularly by the hand of some mysterious group that I know nothing about. Besides, I still need to discuss the boundary lines with the proper American representatives. I can't afford to die now."

Connor mounted his horse and thought for a moment. Then, he motioned for Joseph Brant to follow him again. "Then if I cannot convince you to flee, perhaps hiding would be a more palatable solution. If we can rid the area of enemy influence by morning, then you should be safer than not."

"We?" Joseph asked. "Is your father and that friend of yours in on this, too?"

"…It seems that you already know the answer to that, Mr. Brant," Connor added.

Joseph Brant thought for a moment. "Very well. Then I will hide for tonight. But if you haven't secured the area by morning, then I will fight with my own blades and wits."

Connor agreed and led the war chief to the hidden tunnel outside of Fort Stanwix.

Meanwhile, Haytham was beginning to rather enjoy firing cannonballs into oncoming enemies. Granted, he would've preferred that they were Redcoats rather than Templars, but negotiations were no longer an option. Violence was the only answer now.

"Reload!" Haytham yelled to the young Templar. He had threatened the lad rather colorfully until the boy finally agreed to aide them in exchange for his life.

"We're out of ammunition!" the boy yelled frightfully.

Haytham cursed under his breath and dug out his spyglass. He and Caleb had secured the camp hours ago and had been fending off Templar troops. Fortunately, the camp had a cannon. It was probably rolled from the river and the Templars were likely going to use it against Fort Stanwix should the necessity arise. Haytham and Caleb had maneuvered it to the top of a nearby hill, using the vantage point to their disposal. Haytham had been firing the cannon at incoming enemies and Caleb had gone around to another vantage point to snipe them one by one.

It was strange to see Caleb donned in Connor's white robes, but Haytham could ignore such a travesty for now. Caleb was better suited as backup than as a fugitive. Additionally, the white robes drew Templar attention to the camps rather than Joseph Brant, leaving Connor to lead the target without as much scrutiny. But the Assassins were not the only ones who wore a disguise.

The Templars masqueraded as American soldiers, but Haytham's Eagle Vision couldn't be fooled. They all glowed a dull red. Haytham had briefly entertained the notion that Eleanor Mallow must have much greater influence than he initially imagined. She commanded several hundred troops—a number unprecedented for anything less than all-out warfare. Perhaps her intent was to initiate a bloody battle, or even hold the fort and its occupants as a ransom for Haytham's cooperation. Thankfully, such a possibility was dashed now that almost all of the Templars were dead and the cannon was out of ammunition.

"Either get out of here or hide, child," Haytham grumbled to the lad. He didn't need to be told twice. The young Templar ran as fast as his feet could carry him, hopefully to a place that was secure.

Caleb made a sound from his hiding place; it was the signal that he was low on ammo as well. Cursing yet again, Haytham left the safety of the cannon to filch more rounds from the dead soldiers littering the courtyard. As much as the Templar hated to admit, Caleb didn't call himself the Sharpshooter for nothing. The Assassin was more than capable of covering Haytham as he recovered gunpowder, bullets, and a few stray rifles and pistols. Haytham scrambled into the trees and handed off the payload to the Assassin.

"Any idea how much longer we'll need to keep this up?" Caleb asked as he reloaded his array of guns.

"We should continue the diversion until we have positive confirmation that Connor's gotten Joseph Brant to safety. But until then, I'd figure it's safe to say that we kill every Templar in the area," Haytham swept his spyglass over the landscape.

"How many are left?"

"Oh, a good sprinkling, three or four dozen, provided that they've no reinforcements. Oh, and they've got a cannon."

"Shit. And if they have back up, too?"

"Then you'd better hang onto your bollocks."

Caleb chuckled despite himself and the two fellows briefly discussed the next course of action. After Haytham moved into place, the two fugitives waited until the other troops finally marched. Haytham had hoped that Eleanor Mallow would make a stupid move and he wasn't disappointed.

Rather than wait it out, Mallow sent the troops to their death. Capturing and/or killing the Mentor of the Brotherhood and the Templar traitor was too good of an opportunity for her to pass up.

Haytham dropped from the trees, making short work of the men with his blades while Caleb sniped soldiers like a bird pecking at worms. The elder Templar's sword sliced through flesh and muscle and tendons and screams of horror and desperation filled the air. Finally, Eleanor Mallow entered the fray with her pistol raised. Haytham ducked and rolled and ran towards her horse as the gunfire echoed in his ears.

She spurred the horse forward, intent on trampling the traitor and any other unfortunate soul in her path. Her sword cleaved through the air in a magnificent arc. Haytham rolled again, narrowly dodging decapitation and collision. Eleanor Mallow turned, her horse neighing in protest, and charged. This time, Haytham's sword met her own. He immediately parried, twisted, and grabbed Eleanor Mallow's wrist with his other hand. The Templar woman fell with a shout as her horse kept running right out from under her. Haytham stumbled backwards from the carried momentum. Sometime in the maneuver, the journal fell out of the sidebag and onto the dusty ground.

Mallow and Haytham both scrambled for the unassuming book.

Haytham got to it first, quickly snatching it up and parrying a particularly nasty thrust of Eleanor Mallow's blade.

"Give it back!" she screeched.

Three riflemen took aim on the Templars. In the chaos, Caleb was only able to shoot one of them before the bullets flew. Haytham barely back pedaled out of the line of fire and as soon as he did, Mallow lunged forward, her blade swinging dangerously.

"Use the cannon, you idiots! The cannon!" she shouted orders. The Templar soldiers hesitated.

"If you have them aim at me, then you'll also be caught in the blast!" Haytham yelled with another swipe of his sword.

Such logic only fell on deaf ears as Mallow called out the order again. "I SAID FIRE!"

This time, the other Templars obeyed. Caleb managed to snipe two of them, but another still scuttled to the weapon and fired.

Haytham felt his eardrums throb as the ground shook violently. The ball struck just past him and Mallow, causing the ground to upheave in a great cloud of rock and clods of dirt. Dust flew in his eyes and his ears started ringing as they were both tossed aside by the force. Thankfully, all limbs were still intact, but he had dropped the journal. Dazed and with a rather unpleasant sense of déjà vu, Haytham staggered upright just in time to see another soldier scoop the journal up.

"Lad, be smart about this. Just give me the journal," Haytham urged. The world was still spinning and his ears were still ringing. His equilibrium had been disrupted by the cannon blast.

The soldier shook his head, frightful as a kitten in a rainstorm. Mallow yelled something to him, something unintelligibly drowned out by temporary hearing impairment. The soldier looked back and forth between them. Haytham lunged forward as the soldier tossed the journal to Mallow, but he was too late to intercept it.

Eleanor Mallow held the journal up triumphantly for just a moment before her eyes bugged and her mouth stretched wide in agony. She dropped the journal as a well-aimed bullet passed through her hand, likely taking a few fingers with it.

Haytham darted for the fallen book, his sword on the offensive as he approached. Mallow barely had time to parry and block with her injured hand cradled up against her chest. She gritted her teeth against the pain as she was pushed back. Haytham scooped the fallen, bloodied journal up.

The other soldier from earlier charged, bayonet prepared to stab Haytham in the back. Fortunately, Caleb intercepted him with his own rifle stock and stabbed the overzealous Templar.

"Sorry I'm a bit late! I'm out of ammo!" Caleb called to Haytham.

The Templar traitor barely heard him, but he could see him from the corner of his eye. "Caleb! CATCH!" he yelled and threw the journal.

The Sharpshooter caught the journal and tucked it into his waistcoat. He gave a short nod of understanding and charged the cannon before the Templars managed to fire it again.

With both hands free, Haytham attacked Eleanor Mallow with renewed vigor. She was only just able to deflect both his sword and his hidden blade as she was driven back with every strike.

"You're nothing! Just an abomination! A diseased mutt!" Mallow shrieked in a last-ditch effort to gain the upper hand. "You're no Templar and you should be ashamed to wear our cross!"

Haytham grinned bitterly as he forced the tip of her sword away and rushed in to stab her in the side with his hidden blade. "Wrong. I am more Templar than few could ever be."

Mallow gasped, her eyes wide with fear as warm blood spurted from the wound. She tried to say something, but pain robbed her senses. She collapsed to the dirt, her good hand twitching and reaching for her fallen sword.

Haytham frowned and kicked the blade away. He hadn't made a clean kill, but she wouldn't survive much longer. True enough, Eleanor Mallow's eyes rolled in unconsciousness only a second later.

Clearing out the rest of the Templars working the cannon was simple enough. It took only a moment for the poor sheep to lose hope once their leader had fallen, but rather than allow them to run, Haytham insisted that he and the Sharpshooter kill them all. Moments later, as the dust clouds settled and the gunsmoke cleared, Haytham sheathed his blade.

"Not bad," Caleb panted as he nursed a nasty cut on his cheek. "Yanno, for an old guy."

Haytham chuckled despite himself and wiped his brow on his sleeve. "Not bad for a child playing soldier," he replied.

"Do you think Connor's okay?"

Haytham rolled his shoulders and set to work stealing some of the ammunition from dead soldiers. The sun was beginning to rise and now that the firefight had ended, curious people were bound to come investigate the carnage. "Likely. As far as I know, all of the fighting was concentrated on us."

Caleb grunted and joined the Templar. Reloading as many weapons as he had was tedious work, but it always came in handy at a second's notice. But as they were pilfering the dead in silence, a horse thundered past them and into the wilderness.

"Shit! What was that!?" Caleb shouted, having barely rolled out of the way of incoming hooves.

Haytham cursed under his breath and began sprinting after the horse. "It's Eleanor Mallow!"

"But I thought you killed her!" Caleb snapped.

"Obviously not! But she won't survive, not with those wounds!"

"Dammit, I knew we should've brought horses!"

The two chased after the distant hoof beats. Haytham used his Eagle Sight to see through the nearby foliage. There were no other Templars to intercept them, so he led Caleb onto the portage road and followed on even terrain.

"She's headed to the river! There are probably reinforcements!" he yelled between breaths. Haytham knew that they wouldn't make it in time, but he had to try. If there were reinforcements at the river's edge, then it was possible that Connor got mixed up with them. And if Connor was busy protecting Joseph Brant, then there was no telling how competent a fighter he would be. Connor could've been captured. He could've been killed. Or worse, maybe he was lying injured in a bush, bleeding out as he held his loosed intestines against the gaping hole in his stomach, wishing that someone was with him and that he wasn't dying alone without anyone to squeeze his hand or kiss his sweating forehead in a final goodbye. Haytham's chest tightened as he gasped for breath and tried to push the possibilities aside. No. Connor had to be alive. He needed to be alive.

Minutes later, as Haytham expected to hear gunshots and shouting and hundreds of marching boots, there was only a voice. It was Connor.

"Who!? Tell me!" the Native yelled.

Haytham scrambled through the bushes, anxiety driving him past fatigue.

Connor was under a tree, crouched over Eleanor Mallow's dead body. The Assassin Mentor's head snapped up to see Haytham and Caleb clambering towards him, their faces flushed and sweaty and dirty. Connor stood, frowning.

"Father! Caleb!" Connor regarded, relief mingling with his frustration. "You are alright!"

Connor was alive! He was alive and well! Haytham swept up to his son, his arm outstretched almost as if to embrace him. But at the last moment, Haytham hesitated and quickly dropped the gesture.

"Well, yes! Of course we're alright! And what about you!? You look…" Haytham motioned fruitlessly with his hand. "You look just fine, too! How splendid!"

Connor smiled and nodded. "Yes, the river was too well guarded to act alone, so Joseph Brant and I have been hiding. It was only by chance that Eleanor Mallow passed by." The Native representative in question eased out from behind some bushes, confusion and reluctance pasted over his face.

"If only your dad had given a real killing blow, then we wouldn't have run all the way over here!" Caleb laughed despite himself. He reached into his waistcoat and pulled forth the bound journal. "But lookee here! We've got it! We've got it back, Connor! And we decimated the Templars so that they can't kill Joseph Brant or threaten the Fort! I'd say it's a good day for all of us!"

Haytham and Connor both glared at Caleb. The Sharpshooter looked about. "What?" he asked.

Joseph Brant cleared his throat loudly.

Caleb's face fell. "Oh."

Haytham sighed. "Joseph, I'm afraid that I can't offer a proper explanation for recent…events."

Joseph Brant held his hand up and shook his head. "Good. I don't want to know. I always figured that you and William were in something deep, and I want no part of it. I've already got enough to worry about without whatever conspiracy you two were working on. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather just forget that I heard or saw anything and return to helping my people."

"That's…for the best," Haytham concluded with a nod.

Weariness set into their bones quickly as the group sneaked back up towards the fort.

"What about the other…um, troops?" Caleb asked Connor.

"Without a leader, they will likely retreat."

"Ah, makes sense. But then what about George Clinton?"

"Bah, he's such a yellow-bellied coward that I've no doubt that he'll behave without a veritable army at his back," Joseph Brant said. "Ratonhnhaké:ton, now that you've apparently concluded your…ah, business at Fort Stanwix, will you be staying to see the treaty through?"

Connor considered for a moment and shook his head. "No. As much as I would like to stay, I believe it to be more prudent to continue moving. I would recommend the same course of action to you, too, Mr. Brant."

"Hm, those folks painted a rather large target on my back, didn't they?"

Connor nodded. "I'm afraid so. If you could leave the country, even for a short time, it would be for the best."

"I've still got so much to do here," Brant sighed, "but I will consider taking my business overseas. As you stated, it's for the best."

Connor, Caleb, and Haytham were only too pleased to rest after sneaking back into the fort. A few days later, the official American Congress representatives arrived. George Clinton was immediately removed from the Fort, along with any other politicians and statesmen from New York. Content that the Templar element was officially removed from the treaty, the Assassins and Haytham journeyed on.

"Oh man, William's gonna kill me," Caleb groused and whined. "In my last letter, I told him that I'd be in Boston a month ago! He's gonna kill me!"

"Then we will make haste," Connor soothed. "Perhaps his rage would be quelled if you mentioned our exploits?"

"That's doubtful," Caleb sighed. "But it's worth a shot. I hope he doesn't mind us bringing your dad along."

Connor chuckled as Haytham snorted. "It is in the best interest of everyone if we Assassins work together with Templars towards a mutual cause," the Mentor said.

"Yeah, you're right. I'm sure William won't mind one bit."


	13. Chapter 12

_**Crimmy Comments: It's about time for a more lighthearted chapter!**_

* * *

"What on earth convinced you that this was a good idea!" William de Saint-Prix snapped at Caleb. "Not only do you arrive a month later than you claimed, but you've brought a Templar with you! Oh, and not just any Templar, but the former **Grandmaster Templar** at that, and you didn't think that I'd mind?!"

"Well, uh, I um, William, if you'd just let me expl—" Caleb stammered sheepishly, his hat clutched in his hands.

"What good would your explanation do now!? You've brought him to my home, my personal plantation that's remained unnoticed under Templar noses for years! If you had sent a letter ahead of time, I could've met you somewhere public! I could've arranged lodgings for you all! But no! You brought him _to my house_ without consulting me first!" William raged.

Caleb murmured something else unintelligible and Connor couldn't help but feel a pang of regret for putting his friend in such a bad position.

They had reached the outskirts of Boston only a few weeks after leaving Fort Stanwix. Upon arrival, William de Saint-Prix had casually, politely, excused himself to speak to Caleb alone, leaving the Mentor and the former Grandmaster standing in the foyer. But the walls were anything but thick. Connor and Haytham could hear nearly every shouted word passed between the two Assassins.

"So…this is a nice plantation, no?" Haytham started casually, his hands clasped behind his back as he rocked on his heels. "I never would've guessed that this was actually an Assassin's lair."

"Father, you wouldn't leak this location to other Templars, would you?" Connor asked hesitantly.

Haytham snorted and rolled his eyes. "Oh yes, because I still hold so much standing within the Order," he snarked.

"You are right," Connor smirked. "Who in their right mind would listen to anything _you_ have to say?"

Haytham frowned subtly at him, but before he could reply with a scathing comeback, William and Caleb emerged from the drawing room and walked through the foyer. Poor Caleb was still wringing his hat in his hands as he sulked like a kicked puppy.

"My apologies for making you wait, Mentor," William approached Connor and gave a short, formal bow. "I believe that we left off at the introductions? I am William de Saint-Prix, at your service, sir."

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Connor concealed his discomfort. "Please, call me Connor."

"Yes sir, Connor," William positively beamed. He ushered them further inside to a sitting room that was pleasantly furnished. "The servants are brewing up some tea for us now. My apologies for the interruption. If only I had known you were coming, then I could've prepared a suitable welcome."

"Thank you, but that is unnecessary. I am sorry for imposing on such short notice," Connor had to consciously keep from fidgeting. "If I had known that accommodating us would be a problem, then I would have sent word in advance or gone elsewhere."

"Nonsense!" William denied. "I was prepared to welcome the Mentor of our Brotherhood, I just didn't know when!"

Haytham walked past the French Assassin with a curt, formal nod. William returned it stiffly.

"I just…wasn't expecting you to be traveling with a Templar as well, particularly the late Haytham Kenway," William pursed his lips. He swiftly closed the door to the drawing room just before Caleb could enter.

"Um, hey! William, you locked me out!" Caleb jiggled the handle to the door.

William de Saint-Prix effectively ignored the pleading Sharpshooter and took a seat. "That rifle-toting dolt, Caleb, mentioned that there was some sort of fantastical adventure that caused your delay. Would it have anything to do with our current…company?" he said, eying Haytham skeptically.

Connor glanced worriedly to the door. It sounded like Caleb had given up on jiggling the handle and sat down in the hallway with a whine. The Native thought to mention it, but it didn't seem as if William was in the mood to discuss the Sharpshooter's predicament. After all, it was William's house and he could do with it as he pleased.

Connor cleared his throat and related a brief tale of their adventures. He told William about his search for Haytham, the constant pursuit by Templars, and the battle for the journal. The Mentor even took care to elaborate Caleb's accomplishments and extraordinary feats of marksmanship and trustworthy alliance, but William didn't seem interested in the Sharpshooter.

A servant quietly brought them tea, only sparing a concerned glance to Caleb sitting in the hallway.

"So that is how you came to travel with a Templar," William concluded, his hands folded in his lap.

Connor nodded. "Yes, and although my father may be a Templar, I believe that his goal is worthy of our help."

William's eyebrows raised in surprise as he shifted his gaze back and forth between the Mentor and the Templar. "I'd heard rumors that you were the son of a Templar, but I didn't know you were the son of the former Grandmaster!"

Connor didn't hesitate to nod. "Yes."

"And you honestly believe that he isn't hoodwinking you, perhaps using your familial ties as a noose?" William was almost flabbergasted. Haytham rolled his eyes.

Again, Connor nodded. "I trust that his words are true and I believe that his cause is noble." The Mentor kept some suspicions reserved for himself.

William leaned forward, his arms on his knees, as he scrutinized Haytham.

"Caleb said that you were a callous, insufferable bastard," William said.

"Caleb's an idiot," Haytham snorted.

"A moron, in fact," William replied.

"A simpleton."

"An ignorant buffoon."

"An incompetent dunderhead."

"Hmm, I think that I can tolerate you after all," William concluded, stroking his chin.

"And I you," Haytham returned. "Fancy a game of chess later?"

"Indeed, that sounds delightful."

Connor took another sip of tea as he frowned at the two other men bonding over an unlikely source. From the hallway came Caleb's muffled whine. "Heeeeey, I heard that…!"

After they talked for a bit longer, a modest dinner was served. For a moment, William looked as if he was going to chase Caleb away from the table, but he allowed the Sharpshooter to stay with a haughty sniff. Afterwards, William and Haytham threw down bets and began playing an intense game of chess. Connor took the opportunity to pull Caleb to another room. The Sharpshooter was still thoroughly depressed. He had been sulking all night like a scolded pet.

"Caleb, we are not required to remain here with William. You can come with us to an inn in Boston," Connor offered his somber friend.

Caleb, for his part, offered a weak smile. "Oh, you're worried 'cause he's being an ass? Naaah, don't fret about it, Connor. William's always like that when I screw something up really bad. He'll come around in a day or so. In fact, he's being better about it than he normally is! He's a helluva lot worse when he doesn't have company to entertain, particularly someone so esteemed as yourself."

"It is normal for him to demean you in such a manner?" Connor asked with his face screwed up in bewilderment.

"Only when I fuck up!" Caleb defended. "Normally, he's just…well, I dunno, he's still an asshole, but that's mostly because he's awful at socializing. Trust me, I wouldn't still look up to him if he was a horrible person. He just likes to pretend like he's a big bad wolf, but he's nothing but a fluffy kitten inside. Honest!"

Connor nodded skeptically. "Very well…but if at any point you become uncomfortable during our stay, feel free to say the word and we will leave instantly. All of us."

"Gaww, you're the best, Connor!" Caleb swept the Mentor into a fierce hug. Connor gave a half-strangled noise of distress, but did his best to relax into the embrace. He even patted his friend on the back for good measure.

"Oh! There was something that I've been meaning to ask! It's about what happened at the Fort, but you've seemed pretty, um, hesitant to share much," Caleb started as he released his friend. "Did you kill Eleanor Mallow or did she die of her wounds?"

"I believe that she bled out from the injury that my father inflicted," Connor sighed heavily. "I only wish that her fate had not been so violent. If she had been honest about renouncing her Templar dogma or even sincerely committed to working with Assassins towards the betterment of everyone, then we could have helped her. But as it was…"

"Yeah, I kinda wish that we could've helped her more, too, but she was pretty intent on killing us all in the end there. I hate to say it, but she had to go," Caleb shook his head. "Did she say anything before she died? You were demanding something from her, I remember that."

Connor fidgeted a little and leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He nodded. "Yes, but I could not discern whether her words were true or if they were simply madness borne from blood loss and physical trauma."

"What did she say?"

The Mentor sighed. "She said that there would be more adversaries like her. She said that _**'he'**_ will find the Pieces of Eden, that_** 'he'**_ will rule the new world, and that _**'he'**_ will be the one to end everything and start time anew…"

Caleb's brow furrowed with worry. "Who was she talking about?"

"I do not know."

The Sharpshooter hummed and fell silent for a moment more. "...Does Haytham know?"

Connor shook his head. "No, and I do not intend to tell him."

"Why not? I thought that you guys needed to work together."

"As long as he is withholding information from us, then I must have something withheld from him. I cannot allow him to obtain the upper hand should he...betray me." The truth was almost as difficult to say as it was to believe, but Connor knew it to be true. As much as he wanted to depend on Haytham completely, he could only trust so much.

"That sounds dangerous, Connor. I hope that you know what you're doing," Caleb shook his head.

The Assassin Mentor smiled bitterly. "I hope so as well."

Haytham and William continued their intense game of chess late into the night until they finally concluded that it was time to retire. Leaving the game unfinished, William led the other Assassins and Haytham out of the drawing room.

"Upstairs and to your left will be the first guest bedroom, Connor. The bed is already prepared for your stay. Please feel free to make yourself at home," William motioned. "And next door to that is the second guest room for Haytham. I'm afraid that I haven't another bed, but there is a handsome cot that the servants readied for you."

"What about me? Where am I gonna sleep?" Caleb asked.

William pointed to the nearest window. "Barn," he snapped.

The Sharpshooter winced. "What? You're gonna make me sleep with the horses!?" he fussed.

"You can have the loft," William said, no nonsense about it.

Caleb almost seemed ready to protest again, but instead huffed and shuffled to the door. "Fine, but there better be plenty of blankets! I'll be pissed if I get cold!"

William rolled his eyes and snorted. "Stop complaining. You'll be fine." He took out a key ring and followed the Sharpshooter out the door. "Now just shut up before you aggravate the livestock! I've got to unlock the barn doors."

Connor looked on, positively worried. As soon as William and Caleb were out of earshot, Haytham discreetly grunted. "They are _so_ fucking each other."

The Native's eyes widened in disbelief and he gaped at the elder Templar. "Father!" he scolded.

"What?" Haytham shrugged. "It's true!"

"No, it is not, and you should not be spreading such lies and false rumors!" Connor scowled fiercely. "William and Caleb are just friends!"

Haytham shrugged. "Of course! And you and I are simply father and son, now aren't we?"

The Native's cheeks reddened and, flustered, he headed directly to his offered room to turn in for the night.

* * *

The next day, Connor interrupted Haytham and William as they were playing chess again.

"Father, I must speak with you," Connor started.

Haytham waved his hand in response. "Out with it, then," he said, not taking his eyes off of the chess board.

Connor frowned. "I believe that it would be best addressed in private," he pressed.

"Tch, just say what you will here, Boy! I'm occupied!" he snapped.

Connor sighed in exasperation. The two men had been playing chess all morning and they had only moved a single pawn apiece. They spent more time thinking over their next moves rather than actually committing to it.

"Very well!" Connor gritted. "Tell me what the journal says!"

"Why should I do that?" Haytham narrowed his eyes at the pieces on the board.

"It would be beneficial for me to know of the other locations listed," Connor argued. "The Templars are targeting the journal. In the event that it falls into their hands again, it would be best if we both understand the content so we can maintain the upper hand."

"Translating the journal will get you nowhere. How many times must I iterate that?"

"Since you will not tell me what is written in the journal, it leads me to believe that you cannot decipher it yourself," the Native bit.

"Oh please, I can translate it just fine," Haytham sniffed.

Connor opened the pages up and hung it directly in front of Haytham's face. "Then read it."

The Templar grabbed the book and swatted Connor's hand away. "Alright! See this line, right here!" he motioned to a random paragraph or stanza in the middle of the journal. "It reads 'this is a waste of your time, now leave me be!'" he snapped before carelessly tossing the journal across the room.

Connor cursed colorfully in Mohawk as he stomped towards the discarded book. Some of the pages were bent, but it was just fine. The Native simmered.

"What do the pages really say, Father?"

"They're nothing important," Haytham grumbled as he finally moved a chess piece.

"Are they truly unimportant or are you lying?" the Assassin challenged.

Haytham's eyes finally flicked up to Connor's. "Fine. You want so badly to know what the journal reads!? You refuse to take my word for it!? Then translate it. Go right ahead, Boy! Just go away!"

Connor all but threw his hands up in the air in frustration. Why did Haytham have to be so difficult! After taking a moment to calm down, he caught the Huntsman's attention. "William, Caleb tells me that you are exceptional at puzzles! Since we do not have Haytham's cooperation, perhaps you would like to attempt translating the journal instead."

William, who had been politely silent throughout the argument, noticeably brightened. "Sincerely? It would be an honor to crack the code!" the Frenchman beamed. William stood, abandoning the game of chess to flip through the journal pages.

"Oh come on! That's just underhanded!" Haytham fussed. "We are in the middle of a game!"

Connor smirked triumphantly as William completely ignored the chess board. With his nose practically pressed to the pages, the Huntsman began skimming through it and muttering absently to himself.

"Hmm, I can do this. I can crack this…" he said, exiting the room. He paused only to regard Connor again. "Ah! I'll be in my study if you need me. Thank you so much for this opportunity, Mentor!"

"Filthy saboteur," Haytham grumbled sourly to his son.

Connor could only grin at his victory.

* * *

Later that night, William was still working on the journal. Haytham had already retired and Caleb and Connor were winding down. After bidding the Sharpshooter goodnight, the Mentor trudged up to his room. He frowned into the darkness. He didn't remember drawing the curtains before sundown. Using his Eagle Vision, he spotted a marbled blue and red figure in his bed.

"Father, what are you doing in here?" Connor hissed as he blinked his vision back to normal and allowed his pupils to regulate.

"What does it look like, Boy? I'm trying to sleep," Haytham sneered.

"You are in my room," the Assassin grunted as he shed his waistcoat and boots.

"Well, you don't expect me to sleep in a cot all week, do you? I merely took the opportunity to attain an upgrade while you were playing with Caleb downstairs," Haytham said.

"And you expect that I should sleep on the cot!?" Connor rebutted. The Mentor of the Brotherhood couldn't be kicked out of his own bed by his Templar father! That was humiliating! "You cannot stay here."

"Oh, look at that! I already am."

Connor frowned in the darkness before climbing into bed beside his father. The mattress was barely large enough for one man, much less two. But if Connor could inconvenience his father enough then there was a chance that Haytham would leave. The Assassin shoved Haytham's back towards the wall, ignoring the soft, indignant huff of air against his chest.

"Tch, you shouldn't do that, Connor. We're guests," Haytham warned, somewhat half-heartedly. His breath was warm on Connor's cheek.

"What? I am only going to sleep! I am not doing anything obscene," but even as Connor replied, his leg happened to brush against Haytham's and he had a revelation. His father wasn't wearing breeches.

While Connor understood that sleeping in only an undershirt was completely acceptable, he couldn't help the indecent thrill that shot up his spine. When traveling, Haytham usually wore his breeches to bed. At the very least, he had worn underdrawers (a rare and strange commodity in the colonies), stating that anything less was completely immodest. But now, there was nothing but the thin fabric of his undershirt covering his pelvis and it made Connor positively thrum in sudden anticipation.

"Haytham…" he purred as his hand slipped to his father's hip. "Are you teasing me?"

"I thought that you were refraining from anything obscene," the Templar all but sneered.

Connor was taken aback. Though it was true that he had claimed that, he could make concessions! Why else was Haytham wearing nothing below his torso and lying in Connor's bed!? But perhaps Connor had been presumptuous. Perhaps Haytham had simply opted for comfort, both in destination and current dress rather than doing it solely for Connor's pleasure. The Assassin felt a wave of disgrace in assuming such a situation. But that shame immediately distorted into rage as Haytham shoved him out of the bed.

Connor flailed, taking most of the sheets with him, as he crashed to the wooden floor. Cursing under his breath in his Native tongue, the Assassin scrambled upright and momentarily used his Eagle Vision to locate Haytham's neatly folded clothes and boots.

"I will not tell you again, Haytham! Get out of this room before I physically throw you out!" Connor snarled as he threw the clothes in his father's direction.

The garments fell to the floor. Connor cursed again and held his breath. The Assassin had been so engrossed in his anger that he hadn't noticed that Haytham had moved from the bed. He was about to use his Eagle Vision again to spot the elusive Templar when he felt warm lips against the side of his neck. Connor froze.

They were softly kissing and mouthing with a gentle ease as calloused fingertips slipped beneath his undershirt and lightly ghosted across his waist. Haytham's body pressed flush against Connor's back, eliciting a sudden, strangled whine from the Assassin. Connor felt his innards seize in fear and uncertainty and he jerked away from his father with such force that he nearly fell.

"H-Haytham! What are you doing!?" he hissed, his voice foreign to his own ears. He had been expecting a strike from his father! He had expected biting words and angry blows!

Haytham gently shushed him, as a kind, sweet-hearted lover would, and closed the gap between them. He held Connor's suddenly perspiring body against him with one arm and gently caressed his son's smooth jaw.

"What, you don't care for this kind of attention, Connor?" His voice was honey-sweet as he pressed kisses to the pulse racing in the Mentor's neck. "Can you honestly not handle tender affections?"

Connor didn't trust himself to say anything. He thought to pull away, but he only found himself shaking like a newborn calf in his father's arms. "H-Haytham…stop this, please," he finally rasped.

Haytham chuckled and dropped all pretenses. He savagely wrenched Connor's head back by his hair and bit his shoulder. Connor jerked and felt a sudden wave of relief flood his body. He knew violence. He understood pain and the strange mix of pleasure that could come with it. This was okay. Fighting was normal, and safe, and when it came to Haytham, even arousing. He clasped onto his father's shoulders, anchoring himself to the other man.

"If I knew that sweet affections drove you to panic attacks," Haytham murmured against the now bruised collar bone, "then I would've taken advantage of your weakness long ago."

"Why…?" Connor found his voice.

Haytham continued to bite along Connor's shoulders and neck, leaving marks where the Assassin's robes could cover. He shoved the Mentor to the nearest wall and nipped at his jawline. "Simply because I hate you," Haytham whispered against the abused flesh.

Connor groaned softly. With his hands only shaking minimally, he bunched up Haytham's undershirt and urged it over the Templar's head. His own undershirt was quick to follow and his breeches were yanked down around his thighs.

"You are a disgusting, horrible person, Haytham," Connor whispered to the shadows. He could feel his father's teeth against his chest, grinning something wicked and vicious.

"And you would have nothing more or less." Those teeth grazed across his nipple, eliciting a gasp from the Native. Though the area itself was not very sensitive, the mere danger of Haytham's incisors so close to it and so willing to cause pain made Connor's hips stutter.

"You're only human; you seek out like people," Haytham chuckled. He let his blunt nails drag down Connor's sides, raking welts across the dark flesh until they reached his hips. He clutched his son's ass and pulled their pelvises together. "But there is no one as vile as you. No one else can be so deceitful and atrocious."

Connor sucked in a sharp breath as Haytham's dick rubbed against his own. The Templar worried his earlobe and his fingers were surely bruising his hips and ass. Connor's head was burning and his eyes squeezed shut as he bucked his hips against his father's. "But there is one person," Connor panted. "It is you."

Haytham paused for only a fraction of a second before his chest rumbled with shallow chuckles. He wrenched Connor's head towards him and spoke against his lips.

"Yes, it is I," he choked, lips wet and breath warm.

Connor whined and tried to capture his father's mouth. He wanted to kiss him and taste him, but the Templar narrowly evaded the attack. Nostrils flared in frustration, the Native grunted and rutted against Haytham. He grasped their dicks with one hand and smeared his thumb over the sticky tips. Haytham's breath hitched and shuddered and Connor felt himself grin savagely.

They were wrong. This was wrong. They masqueraded as proper gentlemen, as acceptable human beings, but that was a lie. They were murderers with blood trailing in their every wake. They were saboteurs, conspirators, and liars. So it was only appropriate that they fuck like wild animals in heat, an unholy union between father and son. They were monstrous, incestuous sodomites and they deserved every bite and claw mark they could rake on each other.

Connor hiked his leg around Haytham's thigh, using it to drag the Templar impossibly closer to him. His muscles tensed with each rhythmic thrust as his hand jerked them both at once, their precum slicking his palm and smearing against their bellies.

"F-Father!" Connor gasped. "More!"

Haytham pressed hard against a long, jagged scar on Connor's side, eliciting a pained cry. "You know better than to call me that, Boy," he snarled, but obliged nonetheless. Strong hands kneaded Connor's ass as he thrust against him harder, the Assassin's hand trapped between them. His finger teased between his dark cheeks, making Connor tremble and knot his fingers in Haytham's hair.

The Templar barely got the chance to pet Connor's tight hole before the Assassin came with a low, feral whine. His leg tightened around Haytham almost painfully and his hips jerked and rattled with abandon. Haytham joined with a muffled curse, his hands digging into Connor's flesh hard enough to bruise.

Panting and suddenly stiff, Connor lowered his leg and dragged his dirtied hand across Haytham's stomach. His father grunted in response, but did nothing to stop his son from wrapping his arm around his waist and pulling them flush together. Connor's clean hand smoothed sweaty bangs from Haytham's forehead and whispered something in his Native tongue to the darkness.

The Templar thought to ask what the words meant, but he thought better of it and braced his hands against the wall as his son's arms draped around his shoulders.

Connor murmured something more in Haytham's ear, something that sounded positively filthy. Haytham chuckled.

"I don't know what you said, but I'm glad that I can't understand you," he grumbled.

Connor smirked, his teeth bared against Haytham's bare shoulder. "That was the point."

* * *

Caleb knocked once on William's study door before entering with a tray of freshly brewed tea and a little bit of leftovers from dinner. It was late and the Huntsman hadn't rested all day and night as he pored over the journal.

"Just set it over there," William grunted to Caleb and pointed to a cluttered table. The surface was littered with diagrams, half-designed weapons, and miniature machines. Caleb chuckled and balanced the tray as he cleared a space.

"Still busy, hm? Have you made any good progress?" Caleb asked.

"I would have much better progress if not for untimely interruptions," William sighed.

Caleb winced and was about to apologize before William cut him off with his hand.

"I didn't mean from you," he explained tiredly and pointed to the ceiling, "but rather, from them."

Caleb fidgeted. He had heard Connor and Haytham thundering about earlier and speaking with raised voices, but he hadn't been able to make out any words. Now, there was no noise save for a rhythmic creaking of weight shifting against the wooden walls and floor.

_-Creak-creak! Creak-creak!—_

Caleb fiddled with a pistol holstered on his hip. "Um, maybe they sorted out their differences?"

William deadpanned at his friend.

"They are _so_ fucking each other."

"What?! NO! That's impossible! That's—um…-no they're not!" Caleb blustered, flushing wildly.

William's expression didn't change.

_-Creak-creak! Creak-creak!—_

"Well, um, okay, maybe they're exercising! Right before bed! In the same room! Late at night!" Caleb tried.

_-Creak-creak! Creak-creak!—_

"Uh, what they do is none of our business!" Caleb squeaked, his cheeks a brilliant shade of red.

William stood, his back flexing with the grace of a large cat as he stretched and popped out his spine. Chuckling, he moved to Caleb and stroked the Sharpshooter's stubbly beard.

"You're correct; it's none of our business, particularly so long as their actions don't hurt anyone. We'll keep their secrets because anything less could result in the self-destruction of the Brotherhood," William smiled. "But you must admit that it's really quite intriguing that so many…deviant personalities gather under our sign. Perhaps it's because our ideals are much more…open-minded. Although incest is nothing that our Creed condones, at least sodomy isn't considered a crime."

Caleb felt his lips quirk as he kissed his lover on the nose. "We work in the dark to serve the light," he recited.

William nodded, and then cocked his head. "Oh, it seems that they've finished."

Caleb listened intently. The creaking had finally stopped. He sighed in relief. Although he figured that Connor and Haytham were keeping secrets from him during their arduous trip, he hadn't been expecting…well, _that_. It bothered him a little to think of his friend in such a light, but he was determined to put it out of his mind.

"Well, now that they're done 'exercising', care to stay for some tea?" William offered.

Caleb's face split into a wide grin. "I would like nothing more."

* * *

A few mornings later saw Caleb, Connor, and Haytham finishing breakfast in relative peace. Father and son only bickered half as often since their midnight tryst, and Caleb mulled over a list of new guns he wanted to buy in the Boston marketplace. It was only as the servants were clearing away the plates that heavy footsteps thundered through the hall in frantic haste. Suddenly, William burst into the room, making the door slap hard against the wall as he threw it open.

"What sort of mockery is this!?" William hollered, waving the puzzling journal in his hand. For all rights and purposes, their host looked like a madman. There were circles under his eyes dark enough to be mistaken for a whore's kohl and his skin was sallow and gaunt from lack of sleep and proper nutrition. Even his hair was sticking up in odd places, as if he had been wrenching it in frustration for some time now.

"William, are you okay?" Caleb tried to soothe his friend. William's eyebrow twitched dangerously before he finally blew up.

"LIMERICKS!" he screamed. "CHILDREN'S LIMERICKS!" William slammed the journal on the emptied breakfast table and pointed an accusing finger at Haytham. "Fils de putain! You put me up to this!"

Haytham smirked behind his teacup as he took an almost delicate sip. "I told you that the journal wasn't worth your time."

William's eye twitched again. He took in a deep breath. Then, he made a wounded cry of frustration as he wrenched at his hair again, words having escaped him. Caleb gently shushed his lover and escorted him out of the room, murmuring comforting promises of sleep and relaxation.

Connor drummed his fingers on the table for a moment before reaching out for the journal. He flipped it open, holding his breath in anticipation. Perhaps it was coded twice over. Perhaps William had missed something. The journal had been an object of obsession for the Templars for nearly a year now and Connor was one of the few people to first see it decoded.

But as he opened it, he couldn't fathom the relevance. William had scribbled notes and translations and tucked them between every page. Connor read through the first few pages. Then he flipped towards the middle. Then he flipped to the end.

Every page was filled with simple, poorly written poems, seemingly for children.

"What is the meaning of this, Father?" Connor frowned.

Haytham shrugged. "There is none. It is what it is—a book full of nonsense."

"You mean to tell me that Templars have been coveting a collection of gibberish? There must be something more to it!"

"No, you've quite hit the nail on the head, Boy." Haytham took another sip of tea. "The journal's content is utterly and absolutely meaningless."

Connor's jaw dropped. "But…the Templars have been utilizing so many resources to acquire it! You have fought bloody battles to keep it out of their grasp! Even we Assassins have aided in keeping the journal, THIS journal, from falling into wrong hands, and now you tell me that it was all for nothing?!" The Native grit his teeth as his fists balled.

"Well…yes," Haytham smirked.

Connor frowned, his hopes of having a key weapon against the Templars dashed. "You have lied to me. But…why?"

The Templar sighed and for a moment, he looked older than he ought to have.

"You should know better than many just how powerful belief can be," he sighed. "But I didn't lie. There once was a journal that held the secret locations of Pieces of Eden, but Charles destroyed it after my untimely…disappearance. Since then, the Templars have caught wind of the true journal and by extension, the ancient artifacts. I couldn't let them delve any deeper than they already have. Surely, you understand."

Connor thought about his father's words. "So you have used a fake journal to lure out the Templars you suspect to be coveting the Pieces of Eden. You made them believe that this journal was the key to the artifacts, even though it was nothing but rubbish." Connor snorted, making a half-laughing and half-growling sort of sound. "You even convinced me that the journal was precious."

Connor glanced disdainfully at the book. So many people had died to attain it. Gillian and Fillian McCarthy, Matthew Davenport, Victor Wolcott, Eleanor Mallow, and the unnamed Templars and Assassins caught in the crossfire all died for a sorry, simple lie bound neatly in a leather cover and tied with a smart piece of string.

"It was never the _content_ of the journal that was important, but rather the _belief that it could be_," Haytham explained. "As an Assassin, you should appreciate the power of an idea."

Connor didn't know what to think. Instead, he excused himself from the breakfast table.

* * *

A few weeks later brought chilly November winds, and Connor could tell by his father's restlessness that it was time to move on. Connor visited some of his Assassins in Boston, and narrowly evaded being dragged to the nearest tavern for drinks. They bought some more supplies for the trip, pampered their horses for another journey, and spent one last night on William's plantation. At dawn, they said their farewells.

"Connor, you're always welcome to drop by the next time you visit Boston," William offered.

"Yeah, and if it's any time soon, then I'll still be around!" Caleb scooped his friend into a mighty hug. The Assassin tried to reciprocate awkwardly with a pat on the back.

"I would enjoy that," he said bashfully. "Are you staying in Boston for the winter?"

"Yep, it'll be too much of a pain the ass to head back south, but I've already sent letters. My marksmen know that they've got to defend the post for a while longer," Caleb puffed his chest a little. "They can do it. I believe in them."

Connor smiled.

"Oh!" Caleb fished a sealed letter from his coat pocket. "For you, Connor. I told you that I knew one of the Cherokee chiefs in Western North Carolina, so if you're ever in a bind down there, feel free to give him this. It's just a note to let him know that he can trust you, but maybe it'll come in handy one day."

The Native gratefully took the note and tucked it into a pouch on his hip. "Thank you very much, Caleb—for everything."

Caleb self-consciously rubbed the back of his head. "Naw, it's the least I can do for the Mentor of our Brotherhood!"

"I would not be a Mentor without so many strong Brothers," Connor praised. This time, he hugged Caleb first.

William smiled, shook his head, and reached out to grasp Haytham's hand. "We never finished our chess game. Fancy a rematch next time you're in town?"

Haytham smirked and shook the Huntsman's hand. "Naturally. Loser buys a round of drinks for the whole bar."

"Deal. Bring your pocketbook."

Haytham and Connor said their final farewells and mounted their horses. By the time the sun was over the horizon, they were already well into another journey.

* * *

**_Crimmy Comments Again: It's time to say goodbye to Caleb! I don't know if I'll be bringing him back in for this fic, but he's got William to love on so he'll be okay. 3_**


	14. Chapter 13

_**Crimmy Comments: Happy 4th of July-even if you don't live in the US! Also, thanks to Dee Troit for beta'ing this chapter for me!**_

* * *

**November 10, 1784**

It had only been a few days since Boston and Connor already missed Caleb. The Sharpshooter had been a pleasant conversationalist and he had a sense of humor that didn't rely on the expense of others. And most importantly, Caleb hadn't been so critical.

Haytham, on the other hand, was a downright nuisance. The Templar had been leading them in aimless circles for two days before Connor lost his patience. Once the Assassin steered them north, Haytham's complaints increased three-fold.

If Connor didn't know any better, as he strangled the leather reins in his fists, he would've guessed that Haytham was purposefully trying to push him away.

Connor knew that his father was still keeping secrets and he could only guess what they were. But ever since they left Boston, Haytham had been particularly difficult—and under the scrutiny of Connor's Eagle Vision, the Templar was glowing a brighter and brighter red each day. Connor's nerves were on edge as he waited. Haytham would either end up showing his hand eventually or else their objectives would align once more. Connor could only hope for the latter. He wanted to be wrong about Haytham's true intentions, but he could only find out if he remained by his father's side.

Worse yet, Connor needed to return to the Homestead. He needed to check in with Mr. Faulkner and his Brotherhood and such a task was unfit for simple letters. He had been traveling for nearly a year and while the Brotherhood had still prospered in his absence, he was uncomfortable with being so close to home and yet still so far away. He needed to verify that the Brotherhood and his Homestead were still in working order. But to do that, he would need to leave Haytham behind.

Connor trusted his father not to kill him in his sleep. He trusted him to cover him in a battle. He trusted him with himself, but that was where the trust ended. Connor couldn't risk putting other people in danger by leading an active-yet-exiled Templar to his Assassin headquarters.

A bit after noon, once the Templar and Assassin had eaten a brief lunch at a quaint tavern, Connor told Haytham his decision and packed up the rest of his ration of bread.

Haytham raised a curious eyebrow. "We're going to your Homestead?" he asked.

"No, not we," the Assassin corrected, "_I_ am going to the Homestead."

"…What's the catch?"

"There is none," Connor sighed. "I would appreciate it if you were to remain in this small town until I return. I should not be more than two days. But…I do not expect you to stay. You are trying to run again, are you not, Father?"

Haytham chewed thoughtfully and took a swig of his ale. "I can't promise that I'll stick around, if that's what you're asking."

A tense silence passed between them before Connor caught Haytham's eyes. He stared keenly at his father, his gaze intense and his tone low and menacing. "If you run again, I will hunt you," Connor promised. "This land no longer belongs to your Templars. Now _I_ have eyes and ears working for me. There will be nowhere you can hide that I will not find you, Father."

"Are you threatening me?" Haytham snarled as sharp as a blade.

"…Yes."

Connor finished his glass of water and stood, adjusting his pouches and pulling his hood up again. "I will see you in two days, Father."

Haytham raised his lip in disgust. "Unlikely. Now go play your domestic games and idle fantasies. There's no room for children here."

"It is times like these that I am certain that I hate you," Connor growled.

"That's good, because I don't want your love."

The Native cursed something in Mohawk under his breath and stormed out of the tavern, garnering more than a few odd glances by the other afternoon patrons.

Haytham waited a half hour before setting out again. He had no intention of running into Connor again, not any time soon. He didn't think that he could even bear to see the sodding fool without wanting to knock his teeth in.

What an idiot boy! Haytham mentally cursed his son as he rode west. The Templar had been hoping to lose Connor days ago, but the boy was so damn clingy at night and he had kept his eye trained on Haytham since they left Boston. But to think that it was Connor who walked away first, that it was that moron of a child who left Haytham to his own devices, positively pissed him off.

Well fine, Haytham would leave. He didn't want to be around Connor anyways; the boy had merely been a halfway-decent distraction while he pursued Templars who had strayed from the path. Connor was irritating and insufferable and downright intolerable! Haytham was glad to finally be rid of such a nuisance, even if the boy had been comfortably warm at night and his quiet laughter somewhat maybe-sort-of endearing at times.

This was for the best.

Haytham's mission was not complete. As much as he would rather settle down on a nice plantation and comfortably grow old in obscurity, he knew that such a luxury could not be afforded. There were still other artifacts, more Pieces of Eden. Waiting for trouble to tap him on the shoulder was no longer an option. Connor was involved now. As much as Haytham hated to admit it, his son was determined to destroy the Pieces of Eden as well and Haytham couldn't throw off the boy's trail forever.

That was all the more reason why they couldn't travel together.

As comfortable as Haytham sometimes felt with Connor, as much as he yearned to trust the boy, he had to remind himself that peace between them could never be. Connor's life's work was the destruction of Haytham's regime. The boy had murdered all of his comrades and friends, decimated his chain of command, and stolen his life out from under him, nearly literally. As much as the elder Temper wanted to trust his son, he simply could not.

Too many bridges had burned. Haytham couldn't afford to lead Connor to the other Pieces of Eden.

Haytham huffed as his horse trotted comfortably. Wagons full of giggling girls and rowdy boys were tugged along the dirt road. Their faces were freshly scrubbed and they wore their Sunday best. Several groups of men also rode their horses idly down the path as they gossiped back and forth like old hens.

Haytham didn't like the crowd. He felt as if he were being followed. But taking his horse off of the trail meant that he would call more attention to himself. For the time being, he almost blended in with the exuberant folks. He eavesdropped on conversations, catching snippets here and there. Apparently, the West Parish of Rowley was throwing an autumn festival to celebrate the recent harvest. It was a perfect day to party, with the hot summer having passed and the chill of winter still abated. Haytham snorted under his breath, thankful that he remained blissfully invisible in the lively crowd. At least he could gather some more food as he passed through. He had enough to last a few days, but past that would be rough. He could still hunt, but he wasn't as young as he used to be. Pre-killed food was definitely preferable.

But as he finally made it to the festivities and meandered about, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone was following him. No, he was being ridiculous! There were people everywhere and none were looking his way! But just to be on the safe side, Haytham used his Eagle Vision.

There was no one of interest.

With a frown at his own excitability, he went about purchasing food and watching some of the young ones play games with sticks and dolls.

The hair rose on the back of his neck again.

He looked about and this time, he spotted a red figure dart behind a crowd.

Haytham idly wandered, attempting to catch a glimpse of his pursuer again. It took a while yet before he caught another glimpse of a figure glowing red. This time, Haytham tried to follow it, but he lost it amidst the throngs of people.

Shit. Someone was following him. But had the fellow been tracking Haytham since Boston? Or was he just a stranger who didn't care for the Templar's ominous demeanor. Haytham had a tense feeling in his gut.

The former Grandmaster blended his way through the crowds for nearly a block before he came to a church with a magnificent steeple. He slipped inside the heavy doors, unnoticed by the townsfolk. A quick glance around the church revealed that he was alone.

Haytham's footsteps were soundless against the cobbled floor as he glided inside the confessional. There, he waited.

It didn't take long for the subtle creak of the front door to catch Haytham's attention. He screwed up his eyes and used his Eagle Sight to peer through the walls of the confessional. Eagle Sight was difficult to use, being that it was a step above Eagle Sense, but it had saved his life more than once. He could see through walls and rocks for a limited amount of time.

The man who entered the chapel glowed a vibrant red as he investigated. He walked up and down the aisles, paused, and stooped to check for anyone hiding between the pews. He even glanced behind the altar before settling his attention to the confessional. Haytham ejected his hidden blade, grateful that it was freshly oiled and noiseless.

The enemy let himself into the priest's side of the confessional and took a seat with a creak of fabric and leather.

"You may begin, my child," he prompted, playing the part of a priest even as he slowly drew a pistol from his hip.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned," Haytham began, keeping his eyes trained to see through the confessional walls.

"…How long has it been since your last confession?" the stranger asked.

"I have never confessed," Haytham admitted as he steadied his hand and ignored the pain searing through his retinas.

"But you are confessing now. Are you willing to repent for the sins you've committed against your Brothers?" the stranger aimed the barrel of the gun at the spot where he last heard Haytham's voice.

Haytham's arm coiled. His head felt like it was going to snap open. His eyes burned as if they were bleeding.

"No."

Haytham struck. He thrust his fist through the mesh grate separating the two sides of the confessional and sliced through the tendons in the man's wrist. The stranger dropped the pistol with a curse and used his other hand to whip out a knife at Haytham's extended arm. The former Grandmaster managed to catch the Templar by the lapels and wrench him partially through the wall, making the boards splinter and break with a fierce crack. He held his own blade to the Templar's throat, daring him to make another move.

Haytham breathed heavily, agony thundering through his head as he blinked the world back to normal. The stranger was a white man, one who looked fairly normal and innocent if not for the Templar cross embroidered on the collar of his coat. The fellow grinned up at Haytham, and dropped his knife.

"He was right; you are good," he chuckled darkly, pain hissing through his teeth as he cradled his useless hand to his chest.

Haytham narrowed his eyes. "And who told you that?"

"You think you can just demand whatever you want from whoever you want, right?" the Templar laughed breathily, his forehead sweating from pain. "That's why you were unfit to be a Grandmaster. If only Eleanor Mallow hadn't been such a dumb bitch and jumped the gun, then we could've captured you easily. You wouldn't have been able to resist our force."

"You try my patience. If you've got nothing to say then I'd just as soon slit your throat now."

"You're right, I've got nothing that you want to hear," the Templar wheezed. Haytham made to slice the man's neck, but the stranger jerked. "Wait!" he cried.

"Out with it then!" Haytham growled.

The man grinned, blood from a few splinters dripping between his teeth.

"I didn't know you had a son," he mocked.

Haytham curled his lip in disgust and drove his blade through the man's windpipe and out the back of his neck. The sharp tip slipped between vertebrae and severed the spinal cord with ease and minimal blood spray.

Haytham tore off the collar of the man's shirt to get a better look at the cross he wore.

It was shaped like the normal Templar cross, but it was black and gold and there was an emblem in the center. It looked to be a stylized tree with roots hanging like claws. But when he flipped the cross upside down, the roots looked like flames. A few thin, blue-green strands of thread made a geometric design around the tree and fire.

Haytham gritted his teeth and tucked the emblem into his coat pocket.

The man was a strange breed of Templar and he had mentioned Connor. Haytham needed to move.

Silently, he slipped out of the church and headed around back. The party was beginning to wind down and the crowds were thinning, making Haytham an easy target. The former Grandmaster whistled for his horse, thankful that he had taken the time to train it, and set off for the main road again.

The horse whinnied in protest as he spurred it at breakneck speed back to the fork in the road that led north. There, Haytham picked up Connor's trail with his Eagle Sense and galloped after it.

It was stupid! He had been so stupid! Of course someone would've noticed that he and Connor were traveling together! Of course they would wait to strike until the two had gone their separate ways! And of course Haytham had been too willing to submit to a dull, uneventful life of pretending to be a normal person rather than keeping constant vigilance! He should have seen this coming! He should have prepared for someone to make a hit!

Haytham knew that Eleanor Mallow had been a fool! She had been enthusiastic and driven, but a fool nonetheless! Her father, Matthew Davenport had been too shortsighted to plan this far ahead, Victor Wolcott had been nothing but a tool, Gillian McCarthy had only been a lowly spy, and the late Grandmaster had been a complete moron. None of them could have planned these moves out so well. None of them could've led troops halfway across a country to keep pursuing Haytham and the damn journal! And now, they were after Connor, too.

He had been careless, so damn careless to travel with the boy!

Haytham heard gunfire in the distance and his heart leaped into his chest.

He prayed, not for the first time, that he wasn't too late.

* * *

Connor cursed and turned his head as splinters of wood flew at his face. The bullet burrowed into the decrepit barn wall with a crack.

He had been traveling north for an hour or so when he had been attacked by a group of heavily armed Templars. His horse was dead and he had been shot in the leg. The bullet was lodged in his thigh. Though it missed any major arteries, Connor couldn't run or climb and he was hopeless in melee combat. His only saving grace was an abandoned barn, a pouch full of ammunition, and the fact that these Templars didn't seem to be trying to kill him. They circled around the barn like vultures, clearly debating whether to set fire to it to smoke Connor out or to charge in and take him by force. No matter what, Connor knew that he would not go quietly.

He used his Eagle Vision to keep track of them as he tried to shoot them down before they decided on a course of action. He needed to escape, but there was no way for him to steal a horse without revealing himself. No trees were close enough to the loft for him to risk climbing and no bushes were near enough to the barn. Connor was trapped.

But as he was scanning the area through a narrow crack in the wood, he spotted movement in a bush. The figure was a marbled blue and red and Connor's breath choked on a mix of relief and fear.

Haytham.

Connor swallowed the lump in his throat and concentrated. Haytham crouched, nearly invisible in the bush, and whistled as a Templar passed by. The Templar hesitated, scowled, and went to go investigate the noise. The poor fool was immediately dragged into the brush. He didn't even have time to yell before the whisper of a hidden blade stole his breath away.

Haytham waited until the coast was clear, then he shoved the body out of the foliage and disappeared again. Another Templar who had been circling around caught sight of the corpse and cursed. He readied his rifle and prodded the innocent brush. Connor aimed his pistol carefully through the crack in the barn wall. He held his breath as the Templar pushed some of the spindly branches aside. Haytham wasn't there.

But Connor greeted the fellow with a bullet to the back of his head.

The Templars shouted as another of their men went down. Rather than investigating, they targeted the barn again. It sounded as if the Templars had found an axe as they hacked at the rickety hinges. The barn quaked and quivered as Connor rushed to finish reloading his gun.

"We're under attack!" one of the Templars yelled in the distance before he was cut short.

Connor stood, his pistol reloaded and his tomahawk at the ready. His wounded leg shook and gushed another stream of blood, refusing to hold his weight. His head swam with white hot pain. He grit his teeth.

The barn doors caved in with a crack like thunder. Connor narrowly dodged an incoming horse, stumbled, and swung his blade.

The Templar parried the blow, throwing the Assassin off balance. "I only have to bring you back alive! My Master never said that you had to be in one piece!" the man spat viciously as he charged again. This time when Connor blocked the sword blow, he fell with a shout of frustration. The Templar stopped his horse near the Assassin, blade pointed low at the prone body.

Connor aimed his pistol at the horseman.

The Templar sneered, unfazed. If Connor fired the gun and spooked the horse, it would probably either trample him or land on him at such a proximity. He was almost willing to take the risk before he heard someone run up to the barn. The Templars who had knocked down the doors were mercilessly slain in the background.

"Step away from the boy!" Haytham demanded, somewhat breathless. He held a pistol in one hand and a throwing knife in the other, both ready to let loose at a moment's notice. Freshly spilled blood dripped down his bracer. The former Grandmaster's eyes flashed dangerously. "He's not yours to kill."

"Ah, Haytham Kenway. We've heard so much about you," the Templar drawled, refusing to take his eyes from Connor. "But I'd thought that you'd be intelligent enough to realize when you're in no position to make demands."

"You people want the journal?!" Haytham snarled. He briefly reached into his waistcoat and pulled the translated journal forth. With a curse, he threw it at the horse's hooves. "Then take it! Just step away from the boy!"

The Templar scoffed. "We have no more need for your ruse. We know that it's a fake."

Haytham blanched and ground his teeth. "You can't have him. I won't let you."

"That's no longer your choice to make."

"Boy, get ready to go dark," Haytham ordered as he fished in his pocket one more time. The Templar's interest was piqued as he readied his horse to move.

Connor smiled.

Haytham threw down a smoke bomb by the horse's hooves. The bomb snapped apart with a hiss and smoke billowed forth. The next moments were a blur. Connor dodged the skittish horse and fired his pistol. The bullet missed, but the horse stalled long enough to the Native Assassin to scramble upright. The Templar swung wildly with his sword. Connor blocked it with his tomahawk and a fierce yell, the weight of the blow enough to snap his enemy's blade. Captain Kidd's treasure activated, as if sensing the life-threatening moment. The shield repelled the broken blade and sent the point flying across the barn. Connor wildly pulled himself onto the horse.

The frightened animal bucked and bolted out of the enclosed space. Connor yelled in pain as he used his thighs to keep seated. The Templar twisted in his saddle and tried to fight Connor with a knife, the shattered sword discarded.

Connor didn't know how long it took. They grappled for a seeming eternity, but it ended so quickly. Connor finally drove his hidden blade deep into the Templar's eye socket, feeling the blood spurt into his palm and dribble down his wrist. The corpse went ridged and Connor struggled to push it out of the saddle before they both fell. The Templar's body dropped to the ground with a thud only to be trampled by the horse with a wet crack.

Breathing only a mild sigh of relief, Connor dragged his sore body into the saddle and calmed the bucking animal. Finally, with soft, pained words of comfort in his mother tongue, the Native took up the reins and steered the horse back to the abandoned barn.

"Father!" Connor called hoarsely. Dead Templar bodies littered the area. His father had been very thorough.

"Father!" he tried again. Uncertainty degraded into dread. Perhaps the former Grandmaster had already left? Perhaps he had been chasing another Templar into the wilderness?

"Haytham! Where are you, damn it!" Connor all but screamed. Something was wrong.

He went back to the barn. The dust had been kicked up and formed a small cloud that hovered like a fog. Connor dismounted his horse, his hands trembling and the pain in his leg suddenly insignificant.

Haytham was there, lying on the ground, motionless.

He almost looked like he was sleeping, if not for the sharp, broken piece of a sword sticking out of his chest.

"No. Spirits, no," Connor's strangled sob was foreign to his own ears. He stumbled forward, disoriented and feverish, and fell to his knees. He crawled to his father, panic threatening to drown him as he remembered Haytham's warm blood dribbling down his arm from their battle in Fort George. He had thought that Haytham died then, all of those years ago. But he had been wrong. Connor had promised himself that he would somehow make amends. And it was too late again. Connor's last words to his father were born of rage. He'd said that he hated Haytham—hated him.

"F-father?" Connor tried again, as if speaking the word would wake the Templar. He brushed aside a strand of gray hair, absently remembering the leather hair tie that he found on his ship nearly a year ago.

Shock nearly overwhelmed his logic. Connor could feel the edges of his psyche creeping towards hysteria, he could feel his eyes stinging and his hands just wouldn't stop shaking. But he mechanically checked for Haytham's vitals, ignoring the urge to pull the bit of sword from his chest. Connor had learned to leave impaled items alone the hard way. Dr. Lyle White had taught him about some field dressings. But this was different. This was his father.

Connor couldn't tell if the feeling under his fingers was the fluttering of his own panicked muscles or not. He concentrated and felt the subtle rise and fall of his father's chest.

Tears fell from Connor's eyes as he sobbed with relief.

Haytham was alive! His breaths were shallow and weak, but he was alive!

Connor wiped his eyes on his sleeves, suddenly knowing what he had to do. He didn't know where the Templar's horse ran off to, so he crawled out of the barn and whistled for Haytham's steed. He praised the Spirits that it wasn't far away and trotted up to Connor expectantly. It was a struggle to drag Haytham atop the horse without upsetting the short blade protruding from his chest, and it was more difficult yet to climb up into the saddle with one good leg and while balancing his father's dead weight. But Connor was determined.

He couldn't ride back to Rowley for medical treatment and anywhere else was too far away. There was only one place that he could go: the Homestead.

* * *

**Hours Later...**

A dog was barking. Connor didn't know what he was thinking, or even if he could think. But he knew that a dog was barking. People. A domestic dog meant that it had an owner. He didn't even care at this point what color the dog glowed. People could help Haytham.

His vision blurred as he tried to glance around. The dog was blue. Good dog. Nice dog.

It was late at night. People would be asleep, but the dog would wake them up. Time seemed to compress and stretch at odd intervals before two figures darted out of their house, each with a shotgun in hand. They glowed blue.

"Come out!" a woman yelled. A name popped into his head. Myriam? Possibly. Connor's horse crept warily through the bushes. Myriam gasped in shocked.

"Sacrebleu!" the other person gulped. If the first person was Myriam, then this man was Norris.

The dog was still barking. Connor tried to tell them that the noise was hurting his head, but his lips were leaden. He clutched Haytham's body to his chest.

"Oh god, is he alive!?" Myriam pressed.

"I think so! We need to wake Dr. White! Go down to the inn! Gather the boys and get them up here! I can't lift him on my own!" Norris urged. Myriam ran to get help.

What did those words mean? He couldn't understand them. They were speaking annoying gibberish. Connor grunted. Haytham needed help.

"Connor, Connor can you hear me!?" Norris tried to rouse the Assassin.

He tried to focus on the blue, blurry figure. His eyelids were hot and heavy. Something was wrong, but he couldn't remember.

Haytham needed help.

At least he was among friends. They were a peaceful color, like the sky on a clear day. Like a river. Like the beads in his mother's hair.

Connor tried to talk to Norris. Haytham needed help. He begged him.

"Connor, I can't understand you. You've got to speak English!" Norris' voice was distant and slurred, as if he were yelling across an open field on a windy day.

He tried again. Haytham needed help.

Then, there was more noise. The dog stopped barking, but people were talking. They all glowed blue as they pulled him off of the horse. Connor struggled and tightened his grip on Haytham. The ground and sky spun like a globe. He was on the ground, on his back, but the sky kept spinning.

"Oh god, he's burning up! He's got a fever!" someone yelled.

Connor frowned. Someone was touching his forehead. He shied away. Haytham needed help.

"Who's this guy?"

"Is he dead? Is that a sword?!"

"Holy shit, he's alive! His pulse is weaker than a babe's, but he's alive!"

"Connor, what happened?"

They were talking to him again. Connor tried to concentrate. Something was wrong (what was it again?). The words were mush on his tongue. His mother would be mad at him. He wasn't supposed to get into the sweet pies before dinner. He would be scolded.

Haytham needed help.

"Save…him," he urged, this time in English.

Someone tried to pull Haytham away. Connor held tighter.

"Connor, you've got to let go of him," they tried to coerce him. The man was stern. But he wasn't Achilles. Connor really missed Achilles.

"You've got to let go!"

No! He couldn't! If he let go, then Haytham would fall! Couldn't they see that? Connor couldn't let go!

"Connor, let go."

There was a noise something between a gasp and a sob. He didn't realize it came from his own throat.

"Save him…he's my father…" a strangled whisper (was it him?).

Connor made another distressed sound. Haytham was pulled from his arms.

A thought occurred to Connor, one oddly coherent for his broken state of mind.

Would Haytham forgive him for being the death of him not just once, but twice?


	15. Chapter 14

When Haytham had been a young man, he rarely thought about his own death. He had been knowledgeable about the death of others—how to kill a man quickly or slowly or silently or cruelly—and the deaths of his victims. He constantly ruminated on the death of his mother and father and even the neighbor boy, Tom Barret, from Queen Anne's Square. But never did he contemplate his own passing. While he knew that it was a possibility that his line of work could one day be the end of him, it simply never occurred to him to think about it. He was a Templar. He was surrounded by it on a daily basis and as such, death was merely a fact of life.

Even after Julio had run him through all of those years ago, he didn't quite understand how close to death he had come. When Holden died, Haytham still felt as if he were on the outside, looking in, even as he cut the rope and lowered Holden's limp body from the rafters. Perhaps a piece of him died then. Perhaps he had already been dead for many years, and simply didn't know it yet.

It wasn't until after Fort George that he awoke somewhere in the frontier, with a sharp pain in his neck and his ears still ringing from the ghostly echo of cannon fire and screaming men, that he understood that he should have been dead. Connor had stabbed him and he should have been dead.

But he lived.

For what purpose had Haytham survived? He couldn't change the world as he was now, a washed up shell of a man who once held power over a secret nation. He could fight, but what might did one man have? He was so weak without his fellow Templars behind him. Although he couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to do something, that he needed to change the world around him for the better, he was so tired of the bloodshed. Perhaps there was only so much death and destruction that a man could create before he fell apart at the seams. Haytham was weary of men begging for their lives, of families mourning their lost loves, and the world writhing in misery despite his every effort. So he had allowed himself the peace of obscurity.

It wasn't until he arrived back at the Ellis' farm, a small plantation owned by a lovey, generous, and patient, elderly couple, that he realized that a peaceful life was too much to ask for. They had been housing him in return for labor (a difficult, dirty set of tasks that he somehow grew fond of). Haytham knew that he should have been shocked, but all he could feel was an unspecific numbness and a familiarity that made him oddly comfortable and disastrously ill at the same time.

The Ellis' had been murdered. They had both been brutally beaten and mutilated, given the missing, mangled remnants of their fingers and hands and the blood splattered throughout the tiny kitchen. In the end, their heads had been caved in by a bullet to the face. Their servants were also dead, thankfully killed faster than their employers, and their livestock were butchered and left out to rot in the sun. On the walls in the house, written in blood and gore, was the symbol of the Templar cross.

Haytham had searched for the culprit, his heart twisted with disgust and rage, but to no avail. In the end, he could only burn the planation to remove any evidence against him and move on. At least he had buried the dead. The Ellis' had deserved much more than a shallow plot under a tree, but it was all that Haytham could give.

The Grim Reaper followed him like a wraith who struck down the people around him. At times, it felt like a curse; other times, it was simply inevitability.

Yet when he awoke once more, with a throb aching in his chest and his head fuzzy from the brink of consciousness, he realized he should be dead again.

But still, he lived.

There was a woman humming by his bedside. She was cutting bandages with scissors, but Haytham only heard the steady sweep of a blade slicing through flesh. He sprang upright, eyes wide and heart racing with adrenaline.

She shrieked as he assaulted her. Haytham seized her scissors, swept behind her, and wrenched her head back by her bonnet. The scissor blade was poised delicately over her throat as she sobbed in fright.

"Where am I? Who are you?" his voice sounded like sand stuck between two grinding stones. His head and chest hurt. The last thing that Haytham remembered was the Templar trying to take Connor away from him!

The woman could only beg for her life as tears ran from her bulging eyes.

Haytham almost felt bad. Almost.

Footsteps ran towards the small room. A man hollered, "Diana! What's happened?!" The bespectacled fellow rounded the corner and froze. "Sweet merciful God," he gasped under his breath.

"Where am I?" Haytham demanded. "Where's the boy?"

The man with glasses and graying hair shook his head and held up his hands. "N-n-now wait just a moment! Don't be too hasty, just calm down and let Diana—"

"Where's the boy!" Haytham interrupted. His left shoulder was aching something terrible and his chest felt as if it was on fire.

The man blustered, anger mixing with his fright, as he tried to tell Haytham that there was no boy. Haytham loosely listened as he used his Eagle Vision on the two people in the room. They were both a light red, almost a pink really, yet the man's aura was beginning to grow more crimson by the second.

But they weren't Templars.

"MY SON! Where is my son!?" Haytham's sudden roar shocked the bespectacled man.

An uneven gait thumped across the floorboards in the other room.

"Dr. White, please allow me."

Haytham knew that voice. His muscles tightened as he gazed at the doorway. Connor lightly pushed his way through, a crutch tucked under one armpit to support his gimping leg. He wasn't in his Assassin robes, opting instead for a comfortable waistcoat and old breeches. Bandages were swathed over his right thigh.

"Father, release Miss Diana," he coaxed gently, but firmly.

Connor spoke of them fondly. These were his allies. Haytham complied. He threw the scissors aside and Diana immediately ran from him, sobbing hysterically. Dr. White cast a venomous glare in Haytham's direction and led the woman from the room while murmuring soft words of comfort.

Haytham sat on the edge of the cot as he finally glanced around the room. There was a pile of freshly cut bandages, a bowl of cool water, and a fresh poultice on a small table. Sunlight blinked at him sleepily from the dusty window. If not for the overturned chair and the adrenaline still pumping through his veins, it might be a pleasant room.

He looked down at his own chest, the source of his pain obvious. Haytham wore nothing but his breeches (a downright indecency, if he must admit) and bandages around his torso. There was a particular discolored spot on the left side of his chest, not too far from his heart. It was bloody and somewhat yellow and oozy. He had been wounded.

"It is good to see you awake, Father." The circumstances were politely unmentioned—yet. Connor grunted as he awkwardly leaned over to right the chair. He sat tenderly, grimacing as his bad leg was jarred.

Haytham remembered little between killing Templars and somehow waking in the small room. The confusion must have been written on his face because Connor filled in the gaps without prompt. Although the Assassin couldn't remember much after heading to the Davenport Homestead, he at least told Haytham what he could.

Apparently, both of them had been ridiculously lucky. The bullet in Connor's leg had penetrated some muscle and tissue before deflecting back out again. It had missed any major arteries and hadn't broken the bone. While the Assassin's severe fever took several days to break, the lad seemed to be in stable condition now.

Haytham's injury had been more than a bit worse. The broken sword had impaled his chest, cracking a rib and causing one lung to temporarily collapse. Thankfully, the blade had missed his heart and stopped short of puncturing any organs. He'd been unconscious, slipping in and out of a fever, for over two weeks. Considering his age, the doctor, a certain bespectacled Lyle White, was surprised that Haytham was recovering at all.

"We've been here for seventeen days? You're a fool! Someone could have followed you and now we're sitting ducks!" Haytham grumbled. He reached for the bowl of water on the table, wincing at the movement. His throat was parched and he felt lightheaded still. It was likely the last vestiges of a fever.

"No one did," Connor sighed. "I have ordered some of my Assassins to scout the perimeter and investigate any enemy movement. There has been none. No one followed me here that night."

"But you can't be certain. You said yourself that you were delirious with fever!" Haytham said. "It's unwise for us to remain here any longer. We'll leave as soon as we're fit to ride."

Connor frowned. "We are safe here. There is no reason to leave."

"You're complacent because you're surrounded by your _lovely_ Assassins and those sensitive to your cause," Haytham spat.

"The people of the Homestead are not Assassins. They are civilians," Connor said crossly. "They are not sympathetic to the Brotherhood, but rather we are sympathetic to them."

"How noble," Haytham sneered. He liked to think that his injuries were making him more irritable than usual. "Then I'll leave. Alone."

Connor inhaled deeply, held it, and let it out slowly. His voice shook with contained rage. "If you are so intent on being alone, Father, then perhaps that is best. But you will not depart before you are well." The Assassin clumsily used his crutch to lever himself out of the chair. "I doubt that Dr. White will look kindly upon your stay. A room will be ready for you at the manor."

Haytham raised his lip and narrowed his eyes. Who was Connor to order him about? He was a fool of a child! Haytham didn't need such compassion, not from the boy who ruined his regime!

It would have been easy for the boy to just leave him there to die. It was an accident, so Connor wouldn't have had the blood directly on his hands and he could've rid the world of the former Grandmaster. If Haytham was dead, then the Templars wouldn't be able to find the other Pieces of Eden.

"Why did you save me?" Haytham snarled.

Connor paused in the doorway, his brow drawn in thought.

"Perhaps for the same reason that you keep saving me."

* * *

Dr. White was anything but gentle as he cleaned and bandaged Haytham's wound again. Haytham didn't offer any apologies. What was a woman doing as a doctor's assistant anyways!? That was man's work! And being in the same room as a startled patient was merely bad luck and sour timing! That Diana woman shouldn't have been there anyways; it was scandalous for a female to be in the presence of a shirtless man who wasn't her husband! She should be ashamed of herself!

As soon as the fresh bandages were snugly tied off and his arm was in a sling, Dr. White sent Haytham on his way. He said that if a man was fit enough to threaten his assistant, then he was fit enough to find another room and board. Haytham made no argument. His clothes were returned to him, thankfully clean and mended. He carried his coat and cape in his good arm as he left, ignoring the urge to wince at every step and clutch at his aching chest. He held his head high and used his Eagle Sense to guide him to the manor.

Once there, Haytham made a face. This had been Achilles' home. Although Haytham had known that Achilles had been hiding somewhere in the Frontier, he hadn't been driven enough to seek out the pathetic cripple. It simply hadn't been a danger at the time. But perhaps he should have sought Achilles and killed the old fool before Connor ever found him. Then, this mess would have a distinctly different flavor and Haytham wouldn't be standing in front of his nemesis' former home, at the mercy of his own ailments. Events would have been so different if only he hadn't spared Achilles' life.

Haytham reluctantly knocked on the front door, then let himself inside.

"Father, is that you?" Connor called from the room to the left.

The Templar glanced around the foyer, making mental notes to search the manor later. It was still an Assassin abode, and Haytham couldn't ignore the curiosity that picked at the corners of his tired mind. He stood in the doorway of a study. Connor was sitting behind a large desk, with his wounded leg propped on another chair and a large accounting book in his lap. Haytham fought a grimace. Connor looked unexpectedly different when he wasn't wearing Assassin robes. He almost appeared…normal.

"So this is where you hide when you're not dismantling Templar schemes," Haytham inwardly winced at the bitterness in his own voice.

Connor picked up his quill, dipped it in more ink, and continued writing in the large tome. "If you are finished mocking me, then you will find a bowl of soup in the kitchen. It should still be warm. You will be staying in the bedroom upstairs." The Native obviously wasn't in the mood to banter.

Haytham wanted to sneer at the hospitality, but he couldn't find the energy. The trek from Dr. White's clinic had taken a lot of wind out of his sails and he was more than eager to rest. With only a curt nod, Haytham fetched the bowl of soup and sat in the dining room opposite the study, his back to the Assassin. It wasn't long before he heard Connor shifting in the other room and sliding his crutch under him. The lad thumped to the dining room and edged delicately around the table to sit opposite of Haytham. The Assassin scrutinized his father.

"Yes?" Haytham raised a weary eyebrow and took another bite of soup.

"I have been bothered. "The boy fidgeted a little. "The Templars who attacked us were different than usual. Why is that?"

Haytham shrugged and chewed a potato chunk. "They were still enemies. What does it matter?"

Connor fished something out of his waistcoat and tossed it to the middle of the table. It was the piece of cloth that Haytham had ripped from the Templar in the church. The gold embroidery on the Cross and emblem winked in the setting sunlight.

"I don't know what it means, if that's what you're asking," Haytham sighed and pushed his bowl away. "Like you Assassins, the Templars have different rites, different groups with different leaders under the banner of the same cause. Sometimes, there are minor cultural differences between these groups. It's not outrageous to think that this new breed of Templars have rose from the ashes of my faction's collapse. They have their own emblem to set them apart from their predecessors. That's all."

"Since your untimely retirement, the Templars in this area have continued to use the red and gold seal under your successor. I find it unbelievable that a cult of Templars so organized and well trained could have spawned since this past spring. They must be from outside of the Colonies. Additionally, if the Templars were attempting to break the Brotherhood, they would have better luck killing me than capturing me. Interrogating my subordinates would prove easier and run less risk if they simply wanted to bring us down. But the Templars in the barn were focused on capturing me alive. It does not make sense," Connor said, "unless an immediate blow to the Brotherhood was not their primary objective."

"You're reading too far into the matter, Boy," Haytham rolled his eyes, ignoring the sudden twist in his gut. He figured that they must be originating from outside of the Colonies. Ever since he killed the late Grandmaster, he knew that such a pawn couldn't have organized a force half as great. These new Templars had been after Connor specifically to get to Haytham. They knew that the former Grandmaster was the key to finding the other relics. But the boy didn't need to know that. Haytham refused to become some sort of secret weapon for the Assassins.

"What do you know about these Templars, Haytham? What was their objective?" Connor asked firmly.

"Are you suggesting that I'm withholding information?" The Templar snarled.

Connor didn't need to nod. His piercing gaze said everything for him.

"This is ridiculous," Haytham sighed, rubbing his temples. He was too tired to deal with this. "I'm leaving as soon as possible."

"How many other Pieces of Eden are out there?" Connor demanded.

"…I don't know," he lied.

"They are trying to capture me in order to manipulate you, are they not? It was only luck that kept them from following us here, to the Homestead! How many Pieces of Eden exist?!"

Damn it. The boy had already figured it out. Haytham narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Why? So you can hunt them down for yourself!? So you can try your hand at taking over humanity!?"

Connor called him something in Mohawk. It was a word that didn't sound particularly endearing. "You dare accuse me of coveting the relics for my own cause!? I witnessed the power of the Apple with my own eyes!" he slammed his fist on the table, making the unlit candelabras jump. "They must be destroyed! And you are too old and too frail to do it yourself!"

"Why beat around the bush, boy!? Just say it! You're not afraid that I can't destroy the relics, but rather that I WON'T! Is that it!?" Haytham roared, standing up, his fists shaking as his chest burned.

"Yes! I cannot trust you with the opportunity to raise another army!"

"You're even more naïve than I thought if you believe yourself to be any more trustworthy!" Haytham spat.

Connor stood on his crutch, pain and frustration mixing with his rage. "Have I not proven myself?"

Haytham snorted. "You've only proven that you're an idiot."

Connor raised his lip and opened his mouth as if he was about to shout back. Instead, his jaws clapped shut and he gritted his teeth. His free hand rubbed his nose bridge, gently massaging it for a moment as he calmed his breath. When he spoke, it was quiet, but not defeated. "I want to trust you. I want you to succeed. But you are old. And you are just one man. If you were to fail, then I want to destroy the relics in your stead. All that I ask is that you trust me enough to share the locations for the Pieces of Eden. That is all."

Haytham snorted and looked to the ceiling with a sigh. Why was his son so damn stubborn? He'd like to blame the trait on Ziio, but he knew better. "I won't tell you the locations," Haytham paused as Connor gave a sigh of blatant frustration. "But!" Haytham continued, "I can't leave you behind either. They'll find you if you so much as set a toe outside of the Homestead. If you're going to be attacked because of me, then it would be best if you at least had someone watching your back."

Connor looked at his father skeptically, but didn't interrupt.

Haytham stared at his son, a disbelieving hint of a smirk on his lips. "As soon as we're well, we will destroy the Pieces of Eden together."

* * *

**November 28, 1784**

Morning came too soon.

Haytham grunted as sunlight spilled between the curtains in the room. He was still so tired and the bed was warm and comfortable (never mind that it smelled like Connor), but the heavy sizzle of eggs and bacon from the kitchen made his stomach growl.

He stood, grunting at the stiffness in his shoulder and chest. Although he had never seen this room until last night, he couldn't shake the warm sense of familiarity. This was Connor's room, judging by the tasteful Native décor and the open floor-space. But since the Assassin was still unable to climb stairs, he had been staying in Achilles' old room below. That was for the best. It was already bad enough that Haytham was staying in Achilles' home; he doubted that he could get a single night's rest if he was also sleeping in his former enemy's bed. The only commodity that Connor's room was missing was a wash basin and a mirror to shave with. Fortunately, there was a small washroom down the hall.

After getting ready, taking heaping doses of various medicines, and doing an admittedly shoddy job at securing his fresh bandages, Haytham went downstairs to the kitchen. He had expected Connor or, at most, one of the Homesteaders to be cooking. Instead, Haytham raised his lip and immediately used his Eagle Vision to confirm his suspicions.

An Assassin was preparing breakfast.

The woman must have been one of the strangest Haytham had ever seen. She wore breeches and a waistcoat in lieu of a skirt, and her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows. How inappropriate!

"One egg or two?" she hummed to Haytham, her back still turned to the doorway as she fretted over the fire.

"Who are you?" The Templar barely kept the disgust from his voice.

"The name's Dobby. Now one egg or two?" she prompted again.

"Where's Connor?"

"He insisted on milking the goat," the woman cracked an egg into the sizzling pan. "You've got one egg to start off with. Connor said that you just woke up yesterday, so I don't know how finicky your stomach's going to be."

"Why are you helping him?"

"Why not? He's my Mentor and my friend. I'll do whatever I can for him. Wouldn't you?"

Haytham didn't bother with a response. Waking to a strange Assassin preparing breakfast made his already frayed nerves stand on edge. He had no guarantee that this 'Dobby' woman wasn't going to poison his food or try to find some other means to kill him. Haytham was in no shape to properly defend himself from an attack. Of course, that didn't mean that he wouldn't fight, but rather it simply reminded him how naked he felt without his hidden blades. Connor claimed that they were safe and clean and well-oiled, but Haytham had yet to strap them to his wrists again.

With daylight pouring happily into the manor, Haytham took the opportunity to look around. He quickly memorized the floor plan and headed to the room upstairs. Two of them were closed up, but only one was locked. He tried the handle, jiggling it lightly, and made a face. Standing back, he used his Eagle Sight to peer through the door. Inside, the room looked positively unassuming. There were bookshelves dominating half of the room, each one filled to the brim with various tomes. But the door was locked. Haytham could only assume the reason why.

He heard the unsteady thump of Connor coming in from the stables. Dobby fussed over him for carrying too much in his condition. Connor replied with something that sounded positively bashful and Haytham couldn't help imagining the boy blushing and trying to clasp his hands together the way he did when socializing.

Breakfast was otherwise uneventful. Haytham was allowed to pick an egg from the plate, thankful that they didn't mention his skepticism, and Dobby and Connor chatted like old friends. In fact, as Haytham raised his eyebrow, it almost seemed as if they were more than friends. Connor would lean towards the woman when she spoke to him, a content smile on his lips. She laughed and glowed like a young maiden, the crow's feet around her eyes and the soft wrinkles by her nose nearly invisible behind her warmth. Even on a few occasions, Connor reached out to touch Dobby's shoulder or to move a few unruly bangs out of her face. It made her smile widen.

Oh, and Haytham completely caught Connor stealing quick glances towards Dobby's scrumptiously revealed cleavage.

Even with their dramatic age difference, they looked like a match made in a fairy tale.

Later, after Dobby left to run some errands for Connor, Haytham pulled a chair into Connor's study. The chair's legs dragged obnoxiously against the floor. He had thought to be more inconspicuous, but he was too tired and grumpy to bother. His chest and arm hurt and he still felt a little feverish and he didn't like how Connor was so contently smiling to himself as he filled out his accounting book.

Connor glanced at him, the barest hint of a smile still on his lips.

"…So when's the wedding?" Haytham tried to keep his voice neutral, mentally berating himself for being irritated already.

"What do you mean, father?" Connor asked.

Haytham rolled his eyes dramatically and motioned first to his son and then to the door which Dobby exited.

Connor sighed and shook his head. "We are only friends."

"Tch, any friendlier and you two would've been checking each other's tonsils," Haytham grumbled. If not for his polite company, he was convinced that his son and that woman would've put wild rabbits to shame.

Connor frowned and set his quill aside. "We have…attempted a relationship before, but it did not work. It has been a few years since then and we were thinking of…of trying again," the Assassin admitted. He regarded Haytham seriously. "Please do not interfere, Father."

Haytham scoffed. "Interfere!? Why would I interfere?" He had no reason to be jealous! So his son was running off with some, some harlot! That wasn't Haytham's business! Let the boy ruin his own life if he was so intent! Haytham was completely, one hundred percent certain that he wasn't jealous.

After all, why should a father be jealous of his own son?

Connor was unconvinced.

"I just…worry! That _woman_ dresses like a man, but with enough exposed cleavage to embarrass a whore! She'll ruin your…your reputation!" Haytham motioned uselessly. Connor's frown deepened.

What was Haytham thinking! He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Was he jealous? Possibly. Did he have reason to be? Absolutely not. He should be happy for his son. What kind of future could Haytham give Connor? They were acting as incestuous sodomites. Nothing good could ever, EVER come out of their relationship. But with Dobby…even though she was older and dressed strangely, she could still give Connor a life. She could marry him and they could be legally and morally recognized as a legitimate couple. She could bear his children and raise them as Assassins. She could fight by Connor's side without divided loyalties tearing a rift between them.

Haytham could only ever bring Connor tumbling to the depths of hell.

The Templar sighed again. "You should marry her. She'll give you a future," Haytham advised.

The surprise of an easy victory flashed over Connor's face, only to be replaced with mild confusion and something unreadable.

Haytham stood and left the room before he could say something he'd regret.

* * *

Haytham's birthday passed without fanfare. It was for the best, since he didn't think that any man would be pleased about turning 59 years old. Connor had wished him a happy day, and gave him as much space as possible. In fact, he even unlocked the small library upstairs.

Apparently, the boy had been trying to organize some of the contents for Haytham's reading pleasure. The Templar was almost pleased that he hadn't been able to pick the lock yet (it was rather difficult to manage delicate tumblers with a stiff and uncooperative arm); investigating the unknown territory was almost—dare he think it—adventurous. Haytham was content to lose himself in Connor's book collection (else he'd die of boredom).

Life was tiresomely mundane. Haytham's chest was healing slower than he would've liked. He was a month into recuperation and he still couldn't walk far from the manor without being winded or lift his arm above his shoulder without excruciating pain radiating from his chest muscles. It was worrisome, but Dr. White said that he should be able to regain most of the use of his arm as his body repaired itself.

Connor's leg was healing spectacularly. He could bare weight on it again, even though Dr. White still encouraged the lad to maneuver with a crutch for a while longer.

But despite the nigh-painful normalcy, Haytham couldn't help but notice his son's relationship with Dobby blossoming. Reading old folk tales and history books was preferable to realizing just how old and outmoded he was becoming, and feeding stray cats that crowded around the manor in the mornings was better than being alone. Haytham was even almost convinced that Connor and Dobby really were going to tie the knot, judging by how much time they spent together.

It wasn't until mid-December, when the festivities for the holidays were palpable and feverish, did Haytham realize otherwise.

Haytham had been up late, reading by the candle light, when he heard the front door slam open as if a bear had rammed into it. The old Templar slowly set the book down, making sure to keep his place, and picked up the candle. He crept towards the library door, thankful that he memorized the creaky spots in the old floorboards long ago. Haytham used his Eagle Sight to peer outside of the room. To his surprise, it wasn't an unfortunate intruder. It was Connor.

The lad had closed the front door already, and was clutching the railing on the stairs as if his life depended on it. He didn't bother ascending, but only stood there and made a strange, desperate sound. Haytham's mind flew to the darkest corners. Maybe the Templars had found them.

"Boy, what happened!?" Haytham flew out of the room, candle in hand, and stared down the top of the stairs. With his heart beating faster than he gave it permission to, he scrutinized the boy. Connor was unhurt. There was no trace of blood or injury on the lad. Good. He was okay, he wasn't hurt.

"F-father…" Connor glanced up at Haytham, an odd sort of sorrow filling his eyes.

"What happened? Are you injured?" the Templar pressed again as he descended the staircase.

Connor shook his head and took great, gulps of air.

Haytham finally reached him and touched his shoulder. The lad recoiled with a gasp and a curse. Haytham frowned.

"Connor, don't just stand there and make a scene. Tell me what transpired. Are the Templars here? I can pack some provisions while you saddle the horses," Haytham offered sternly. To his surprise, Connor charged forward, knocking his father to the staircase. The candle tumbled to the floor, but was thankfully snuffed by Connor's boot before it could do any more than blacken a spot on the wood.

Haytham cursed colorfully as the edges of the stairs dug into his spine and the weight on his chest made his lungs positively ache. "Boy! What's the meaning of this! Get off of me!" he yelled.

"I cannot do it… Why can I not do it?" Connor gasped brokenly against Haytham's shoulder. His fingers dug into his waistcoat momentarily before finding Haytham's ponytail and wrenching it back forcefully.

"What in bloody hell do you AH!—Goddammmit, boy!" Haytham snarled. He tried to use his good arm to push the Native off of him, but Connor dug his toes against the stairs and braced himself against his father's force.

"Why can I not touch people the way that they deserve to be touched?" Connor asked, his voice small and broken as his lips ghosted over Haytham's neck. He bit down hard.

Haytham grunted another obscenity and kneed Connor in his healing thigh. The Native yelped, but did not relent.

"How in blazes should I know! Cease this nonsense, you idiotic buffoon!"

"I cannot receive proper physical contact and I cannot give it appropriately. When someone touches me, I expect pain, even when I do not want it. When there is no pain, I break inside. Something is wrong with me, Father," Connor explained.

"What? What brought this on?!" Haytham grunted. He elbowed Connor in the jaw, finally forcing the Native to roll sideways. Haytham wrestled his way on top of the boy, using his Eagle Vision and his senses to fight in the dark. The two grappled until Haytham threatened to bear his weight on Connor's injured thigh.

Connor finally relented and sagged on the stairs. "Dobby and I…" he choked. "We cannot be together. I cannot give her what she needs."

Haytham raised an eyebrow. Is that what this was about!? All this drama arose because Connor couldn't get it up for some woman!? The Templar snarled in frustration and was about to ask for further clarification. He stopped himself. Haytham understood what Connor meant.

Connor was prone to panic attacks whenever he was touched, either casually or nicely. While most people could probably assume that the lad just didn't care for physical human contact, Haytham knew otherwise. Connor was afraid. The only touches he could understand were born from violence and vicious lust. Dobby was undeserving of such ghastly treatment, so Connor would not hit her, COULD not hit her to spark the flame within him. He yearned for physical contact, but he could only achieve violence. The boy was broken.

A wave of guilt surged through Haytham as he pressed his forehead against Connor's. The Assassin turned away, his brow knotted and his expression unreadable in the dark.

"Perhaps you and I were meant to lie together," Connor grumbled bitterly. "You are the only one who has ever…who can ever—"

"Shut up!" Haytham snapped. He clenched his eyes. "I am **not** the one who can bring you happiness! Don't—for one more second—think that, else I-I'll fucking kill you! You sniveling brat, I'll kill you!"

If Haytham didn't know any better, he would've sworn that Connor smiled bitterly.

Haytham wanted to make this right. Dear, sweet God, he just wanted to be right. He thought of Holden.

"Affection…" Haytham swallowed hard, making a face as he straddled his son, "Affection is not something only to be taken. It must be given, Boy. And sometimes…sometimes only when you know how to give affection can you learn to receive it without guilt."

Connor tensed, ready for pain to be inflicted. Instead, Haytham took a deep breath to steady himself and pressed his lips against Connor's cheek. The boy stiffened as if rigor mortis had claimed his bones. But Haytham did not relent. He searchingly dragged his lips across Connor's face and found his mouth. There, he pressed a soft, but not unchaste, kiss.

"That's…that's what you've wanted for so long, right? What you've wanted from me, but I've been unwilling to give?" Haytham murmured quietly. Connor parted his lips, hungry for more. Their mouths meshed together, a mix of warmth and saliva and Connor's clumsy teeth.

The kiss was not vicious. It was not angry or rushed. The Native took his time tentatively exploring the tongue in his mouth, as one might a new, tasty morsel of food. After a moment, Connor even felt brave enough to push his own tongue into Haytham's mouth. The Assassin nipped at his father experimentally. Haytham responded with a growl, but no retaliation.

It had been years since Haytham kissed anyone. The sensation made his toes curl in anticipation and he fought the urge to moan softly. It had been so long. Although his technique was thankfully not forgotten, Haytham did neglect breathing until his lungs burned. He pulled away from Connor, noting the boy's reluctant whine.

"I thought that you did not care for affection or kisses," Connor breathed, fear lacing the edges of his voice. The boy swallowed hard and he held onto Haytham's hips firmly to ground himself. Haytham winced, hoping that there wouldn't be bruises come morning.

"I don't. But I'll…I'll teach you," Haytham grunted unsteadily. He pushed away his disgust and trepidation. This was for Connor, right? Yes, for Connor's sake. "If it means that you'll be able to have your woman without killing her or chasing her off, then I'll teach you. Just shut up and kiss me."

Connor didn't need to be told twice.

The two men kissed again, more confident, more certain, as their bodies crashed together. At some point, Haytham vaguely realized that his cock was hard and his breeches were undone. Connor's dick was already rigid and hot against his belly as precum leaked onto his waistcoat. The Native jerked them off, pleading softly against Haytham's lips as they rocked together on the staircase.

Shame clutched Haytham's heart as they found completion. Connor gasped against him, his hips surging up to meet his father's, with a soft cry of _i'Oh yes!'/i_ and a sputtering whine.

Haytham was appalled. He had promised himself—promised Holden—that he would never become a monster.

And now, it was too late.


	16. Chapter 15

_Crimmy Comments: Okay, I've got a couple of notes before you dive into this chapter! First off, my deepest apologies to the comments that I haven't responded to yet-mykonos and Kamikuro on AO3, and littlevamp, silveremerald202, and all of those lovely anonymous comments that don't provide me with a reply button on FF dot net! I'm really shy and it takes a lot of effort for me to muster up the courage to reply to comments. But don't stop! I love receiving comments and I adore replying! I just haven't had the time to stop blushing and stuttering all over my keyboard enough to type coherent replies. But I will reply! I promise!_

_Secondly, on **Monday, July 22, I'll be posting up the first chapter of He Who Makes a Beast Out of Himself!** It's a 4-chapter companion fic regaling us with Haytham's past relationships in our Thicker Than Water fanon. It will be updating on Mondays, and Thicker Than Water will continue updates on Thursdays (All days on Mountain Standard Time)._

_Thanks again so much for reading and/or commenting on this fic! It means so much to me and I wouldn't have gotten this far without amazing readers like you! Enjoy and see you on Monday!_

* * *

**December 31, 1784**

Haytham had always known that Connor was an angry person—the sort who carried the weight of his rage like molten lead in his chest. He noticed the simmering venom from the first time they met.

Haytham traveled with Connor long enough to figure out some of the lad's strange behavior. When they didn't bicker, they came to blows. When they weren't fighting, they were arguing. And when they both spat at each other like feral cats AND let the venomous words fly at once, they fucked. It was a vicious cycle that Haytham assumed was the boy's natural personality. But when he saw the lad with other people, with his friends and comrades and innocent strangers, the boy changed. The Assassin was—dare he think it—shy and inherently tender. When the boy spoke to strangers, he had a habit of wringing his hands. Unless the situation merited otherwise, Connor was always polite and absurdly kind to friends and strangers alike. He was even respectful to animals. Haytham had seen the boy hunt, had heard the gentle words muttered in his Native tongue like a small prayer of thanks as he gently laid the animal to rest. If not for the bitter arguments between the two men, Haytham almost would've thought that Connor was some sort of saint.

But saints don't kill.

Connor was good at restraining his anger, but when it came to Haytham, the gauntlet was thrown and the gloves were off. Blood and bruises were gifted and received. Split lips and blackened eyes and sore ribs and aching bones were passed between them almost as a casual service. Was the boy's hatred for Templars such that he couldn't even treat one, his own father!, as he did other humans? It took Haytham a long time to understand what was happening.

Haytham was a trigger.

Connor would never unleash his anger on someone undeserving. But even though Haytham often hadn't merited the lad's rage, he was a convenient scapegoat for it. Connor used his father as an outlet to drain the excess resentment.

Haytham was no better. All of his anger at the Order, at the Assassins, at his shamble of a life, was directed at the living embodiment of his failures.

But in recent weeks, Haytham understood something. He wanted Connor to be happy. Perhaps it was some misconstrued paternal instinct or maybe he just didn't want to be responsible for dragging the boy to hell anymore. Either way, Haytham fought to keep his temper in check and his fists to himself. He wanted Connor to find a woman and settle down.

Is this what Holden had felt all of those years ago?

In bed, Haytham was patient with Connor. When he wanted so desperately to throw the Assassin on the bed and fuck him until his eyes were crossed and he was speaking in tongues, Haytham held himself back. Connor would take the opportunity to kiss Haytham as his hands explored the ridges of bone and muscle and scar. He took his time tentatively finding the places that Haytham liked to be touched. The Templar knew that his son was taking mental notes of every muscle twitch and faltering groan. The intimacy was frightening. But when Haytham tried to touch back, to assert some form of dominance, Connor would shy away as if burned. His dark eyes would flash dangerously and he would need to take a moment to calm down again. Sometimes, Connor left the room for a few minutes. Sometimes, he would strike out at Haytham and the two would brawl and rut like wild animals.

But while Connor was less physically violent with his father, his words were becoming more venomous by the day. Apparently, the Assassin needed some way to vent his anger, either with his fists or his tongue. When the former was decided against, the latter was the only option for the lad.

It wasn't fair.

Haytham couldn't bypass rising to the challenge and bickering until the two were blue in the face. Connor's words were cruel, but Haytham's tongue could be just as sharp. And yet their arguments were becoming so tiresome. They were chasing each other in verbal circles, about the Assassins and Templars, about their misgivings, about the past. Each argument mentioned previous fights and incidents and if they squabbled for long enough, the topic always steered back to Ziio's death. It wasn't fair.

While their physical relations were becoming more comfortable, their communication skills were deteriorating. They couldn't stand to be around one another unless there was the promise of sex.

Perhaps it was for the best.

It was New Year's Eve already. Christmas had passed with Homesteaders and Assassins alike visiting the manor constantly to wish Connor good tidings and a speedy recovery. They skirted around Haytham as one would a stray dog that _could_ be rabid, but one certainly wouldn't want to pet it to find out. Not that the Templar particularly minded. He could only imagine what they said behind his back, how they must be worried over Connor's well-being considering the company he was keeping.

A large Christmas party was held at the manor. Haytham spent the evening holed up in his room with a book, trying to ignore the merriment below. Of course, Connor had invited his father, but Haytham declined rather stubbornly. He didn't find the presence of so many Assassins pleasant, and he knew full well that they were more comfortable with him caged away. While the idea of crashing the party and making a scene was entirely appealing, Haytham just…didn't want to go. He knew that he and Connor would only fight. Dear god, he _was_ getting old.

Thankfully, the New Year's Eve festivities were being held at The Mile's End this time around. Haytham declined Connor's invitation yet again, insisting that he absolutely, positively did not want to go. What he didn't tell Connor was that they both knew he didn't belong here. The people of the Homestead hadn't forgiven him for threatening Diana's life and the Assassins couldn't overlook his Templar cross. While Haytham certainly didn't blame anyone for his treatment, it still didn't make the exclusion any easier to bear. He was injured, weakened from lack of activity, and feeling older than ever. It was a shame that he simply couldn't will his body to be healed. If he had been younger, there was no doubt in his mind that he'd be up and training again by now. As it was though…

Dammit, even the fine print in the books was harder to read than he ever remembered.

Haytham set his book aside as someone unlocked the front door to the manor and trudged in.

"Goddammit, it's colder than a witch's _tit_ out there! Now where is it…" a voice grumbled. Haytham recognized it; it was Dobby.

He made his way downstairs as Dobby hurriedly searched the kitchen. Perhaps it was cruel of him to move so silently, or perhaps it was the woman's haste that made her careless. Either way, Haytham slipped down the staircase and noiselessly entered the kitchen. The Assassin was looking for something amongst the pots and pans.

"How's the party?" Haytham cleared his throat.

The Assassin whipped around, a frying pan brandished like a sword. Haytham raised an eyebrow, but made no movement.

"Relax. If I was going to kill you, then I would've done so weeks ago," he said.

Somehow, the woman didn't seem to find that comforting. But she did straighten her back and lower the pan.

"What do you want?" While Dobby was always at least cordial to Haytham, she didn't dare mince the few words they had passed between them.

"Shouldn't I be asking that question?" Haytham motioned to the mess of pots and pans.

She sighed and returned to searching. "Corrine needs another baking pan. Connor said that he had one, but it's snowing outside and he shouldn't be walking on crutches in this weather."

Of course. Of course, it was Connor's precious Assassin, the middle aged girlfriend, to the rescue. While she was Connor's right hand in the day, it was Haytham who put his hands to good use at night.

"How noble," he said bitterly.

"Don't mistake nobility for friendship."

"Oh, is that what you two are? Just friends?" Haytham suggested, unable to keep the ugliness from his voice. This was his night to be alone. He had the manor to himself and now the Assassin was barging in, taking items, and spoiling his evening. She was an unpleasant reminder of the party at the inn.

The Assassin took a deep breath, the anger flashing over her posture as she stood again and regarded Haytham. "Listen, since you've been staying with Connor, I've never antagonized you, I've never stepped on your feet, and I've never insulted your intelligence; all of that has been for Connor. Don't diminish me so discreetly. I don't follow your orders and I certainly don't have any obligation to answer your questions. But if you've got something to say _Templar_, then say it."

Haytham fought the urge to sneer. Dobby and Connor had still been spending time together, but in the last two weeks, their visits had grown shorter and shorter. Haytham thought that his…lessons…could somehow help Connor to grow closer to Dobby, but it seemed that the opposite reaction was happening. The two lovebirds were growing apart, and if Connor and Dobby were ever going to settle down as a couple, it needed to be sooner rather than later. Dobby, despite her good health, was no spring chicken.

"Are you still able to bear children?" he asked, his arms crossed over his chest, the left still in a sling.

Dobby flushed wildly, her eyes narrowed in rage. "How DARE you ask a lady something as personal as that! That's none of your business, Templar swine!"

"It is to a degree," Haytham rolled his eyes. He really DIDN'T want to know whether or not the Assassin had reached menopause yet. "If you and Connor were to marry, I'd expect grandchildren."

Dobby flushed again, equal amounts of embarrassment blending with her rage. She clenched her fists and went back to shuffling the pots and pans before she could strike out at Haytham.

"…I don't think you have to worry about anything like that," she mumbled quietly. "Connor and I…we're…we're not… Connor needs help and someone with a lot more patience than what I can provide. It wouldn't be fair to him… it just…we can't."

Dobby paused, crouched and facing the multitude of cooking supplies. "Connor and I can't be romantically involved anymore. We tried. Dear God, we tried. But I don't think that he's going to come around in time for me to be a proper wife. We're friends and comrades, and that's what we'll continue to be. Nothing more, but nothing less."

Haytham cursed under his breath as his stomach did a flip of joy and horror. Damn. So the boy's problems already cost him a potentially wonderful relationship. Haytham couldn't shake the guilt.

Dobby said nothing more as she finally found the elusive baking pan. She put back the cookware and brushed past Haytham with her chin held high and her lips pursed as if her heart was silently ripping in two.

"Connor wishes that you were at the party," she said quietly, albeit reluctantly, with her hand on the doorknob already.

"…There's no place for me there," Haytham replied solemnly.

She gave a harsh, bitter laugh. "There's a reason dead people are supposed to stay six feet under. Connor would've been better off knowing his father was unable to spend holidays with him. Instead, he thinks that you just hate him."

"And if he's not wrong?"

"Then you should've stayed dead."

* * *

Haytham re-read the same page for what felt like the hundredth time. But like all the times before, his eyes merely scanned across the words as his mind wandered. While a part of him was disgustingly thrilled that Connor and Dobby were no longer an item, it made his 'sessions' with Connor all the more horrendous.

They had kissed.

How sick was he to want his own son? Haytham gulped as his stomach rolled.

No, they weren't father and son. They were just Haytham and Connor.

Haytham jumped as he heard the front door open again. This time, the heavy wooden thump announced Connor's arrival. Good. Haytham didn't think that he could handle any more of the boy's Assassins for the night. His patience and nerves were worn too thin. Of course, that didn't mean that he wanted anything to do with Connor either, but he heard the Assassin take off his boots and shake the snow on the rug in the entry way before heading shakily up the stairs. The railing creaked and groaned as Connor bore his weight on it.

Haytham silently hoped that Connor would go elsewhere, that maybe he'd go to the room with all of the different inventions in it or maybe the other sitting room or anywhere but the library. He wasn't so lucky. Connor paused outside of the small library and knocked twice.

"Father, I've brought some food," he offered, voice carefully neutral.

Haytham sighed and set his book aside. He couldn't even pretend to read anymore. "I'm not hungry," he said. He had eaten his supper earlier, long before Dobby came by and upset his entire evening.

Connor entered regardless. He was more than eager to offer Haytham a bowl of roasted meat and potatoes. It was cold, and heaven only knew how Connor managed to limp with it all the way from the inn, but Haytham took the bowl with a sigh anyways. Connor sat down in the nearest chair, a soft groan of relief whooshing out of his lips. The lad's leg was probably bothering him.

"…It's only half an hour past midnight. I surely thought that you'd be staying up with your friends 'til dawn," Haytham remarked. He prodded the cold meat and took a tentative bite. It was good. Even though it was cold and Haytham wasn't hungry, it was good. He'd save it for lunch tomorrow.

Connor shrugged. "Most of the guests already left. The only ones who remained are intent on drinking until they are blind."

"Ah."

A thick silence passed between them, but it wasn't entirely uncomfortable. Haytham could feel his shoulders easing and his brow slowly unfurrowing. They hadn't argued yet and Haytham dared to think that maybe he could even retire for the night without rage and resentment burning holes in his gut. Connor was bothered by something, and that was just fine so long as Haytham had nothing to do with it. But then, Connor opened his big mouth again.

"Did you speak to Dobby when she came by? She was upset for the rest of the night," Connor asked.

Haytham sighed. "I didn't hurt her."

Connor nodded. "I had hoped not."

Another silence. Then, "Father, how did you cope when my mother told you to leave?"

Oh great. Just when Haytham was beginning to fool himself into comfort, the boy started asking for relationship advice. At least he wasn't accusing Haytham of more crimes he never committed.

Haytham sighed. He didn't want to talk about Ziio, not when every bad argument led back to her untimely demise. "You read the journals. I just…left," Haytham offered. Connor looked at him almost pleadingly. Haytham shook his head. He couldn't do this right now. "Can't we save that for another time? It's late."

Connor was crestfallen as he gave a hesitant nod. The boy was obviously in need of more answers. Bah. It could wait. Haytham really was tired. The Templar snuffed his candle and glided to his borrowed room. To his surprise, Connor followed.

"I told you that it's late," Haytham grunted as he disrobed. He thought that the lad might be angry, but he wasn't. Connor was apparently just horny. The Assassin said nothing and wrapped his arms around his father's waist. His lips searched Haytham's neck, pausing over places he had bitten days before.

"Then I will take care of you," Connor promised with a devilish grin.

Haytham rolled his eyes. Getting off would probably help him sleep through the night, given his aching shoulder. "Fine. Make it quick," he huffed. He wasn't going to turn down the opportunity to have Connor do all of the work.

Immediately, the Assassin was upon him and driving him towards the bed. They toppled across the mattress unceremoniously, their tongues and lips tangled sloppily in the dark. Haytham's underdrawers flew across the room and his undershirt shirt was hiked up to his collarbone as Connor felt his waist and his bandaged chest. The Assassins' fingers traced over the still healing wound hidden under the layers of dressings and ointment. Haytham gave a soft growl of warning, eliciting a chuckle against his lips.

The Native straddled Haytham's thighs and kissed down his neck.

"How is your chest healing? Can you comfortably lift your arm?" Connor asked, with his breath fluttery and anxious against the Templar's flesh.

Haytham shifted and grunted. What the hell kind of question was that to ask a man while his blood was eagerly relocating!? "To a degree. I can't raise it above my head yet," he clipped. "Now while I'd love to play nursemaid and patient with you, I have other things in mind." He rolled his hips meaningfully, his erection brushing against Connor's maddeningly clothed crotch.

Connor's breath hitched as he nipped at Haytham's collarbone. He smirked. "Good."

The tone in Connor's voice spelled anything but fortune, but as soon as the thought dawned on Haytham, he found his good arm wrenched above his head. Haytham jerked and bucked in distress, but Connor interrupted his protests by firmly grinding his hips against his father's weeping erection.

"…You little shit…" Haytham snarled. Connor had tied his wrist to the bedpost.

Connor sat up, likely to admire his handiwork with his Eagle Vision.

Haytham was sprawled carelessly across the bed, his silver hair coming undone and his right arm restrained above him. The Templar's left arm was still in a sling, and though they knew it wasn't completely useless, it wouldn't be strong enough to put up much of a fight. Even in the dark, Connor must have been aware that Haytham was glaring daggers at him.

"I said that I would take care of you, Haytham," Connor purred. He kissed his angry father's cheek, and got up. Haytham listened intently as the lad ventured across the room and retrieved the jar of bear grease from the small dresser. He thought to kick Connor as the lad returned, making the bed dip to his weight, but curiosity held him back. Maybe Connor's leg was healed enough to ride him. Haytham did like the idea of Connor bouncing on his cock, his hands gripped to the headboard and the mattress creaking and groaning in protest. He licked his lips.

Connor kissed his way down Haytham's chest and stomach, pausing only to nip at his hipbone. His strong hands, hands that were capable of snuffing the life out of a man within moments, gently caressed his thighs and hips while purposefully avoiding the prominent erection.

"Get on with it," Haytham snarled.

Connor smiled against his pelvis and nuzzled his father's cock before finally taking it in his hands. The Assassin's palm was slick with bear grease as he slathered it over the rigid flesh, making Haytham sigh in contentment. It was warm and wet and the pressure of his son's hand was just right. Connor experimentally flicked his tongue against the tip of Haytham's cock, then swirled it about as if he were lewdly licking a candy. Haytham grunted and kept his hips carefully schooled as he dropped his head back against the pillow. He had always credited the boy for being a fast learner, but fellatio was one of those skills he never expected Connor to fully pick up. Yet the lad had surprised him on more than one occasion with a quick blowjob in the parlor or a handjob in the kitchen. Connor couldn't deepthroat yet, but he more than compensated with his enthusiasm.

Haytham groaned as Connor took the head of his cock in his mouth and suckled on the tip as if he were trying to coax the precum out. He fisted the base and fondled Haytham's heavy scrotum and slowly took more of the dick in, his lips carefully wrapped around his teeth. Haytham didn't need to use his Eagle Vision to know that Connor's eyebrows were drawn together in concentration as he bobbed his head and hollowed his cheeks. Connor hummed in appreciation of thick length pulsing against his tongue.

Haytham murmured words of breathless encouragement, with his hips tense and refraining from bucking into the delicious heat. He slipped his bad arm out of the sling and reached down to pet Connor's hair. It was only through sheer will alone that he wasn't twisting his fingers in the thick locks and forcing the boy to take him to the hilt. He let the sensations envelop him firmly, allowing his nerves to fall into the fiery promise. He was so enraptured by the glorious mouth wrapped around his dick and the hand tenderly rolling his balls, that it took him a moment to notice that Connor's grease-slicked finger was further south than it should be. Haytham cracked open an eye in the dark, jerking hard enough to make the Native sputter and gag around his cock. His fingers tightened and he pulled Connor's head aside, making his dick slide free with an audible pop.

"Boy, what the _**HELL**_ do you think you're doing?" Haytham snarled dangerously.

Connor's guilty finger gently prodded the space between Haytham's balls and hole.

"I want to try something different," Connor was breathless.

"Not with my arse, you're not!"

Yet still, the insistent finger poked his perineum a few more times before trailing to the tight ring of muscle. Haytham responded by digging his heel into Connor's injured thigh only a few inches away from the healing wound. Connor yelped and withdrew his hand quick as lightning.

"That is not fair!" The boy undoubtedly pouted. "You have done this to me, so why may I not reciprocate?"

"Because I said so," Haytham grunted, jerking weakly at Connor's hair again.

Connor grabbed the base of Haytham's cock hard enough to make the older man gasp. "I want to make you feel good."

"Then put that mouth back to work," Haytham snarled.

Connor tilted his head and blew across the tip of his father's cock, making a shiver unexpectedly tingle up his spine. The boy's grip didn't relent.

"You're not going to continue sucking me off unless I permit the use of your fingers, are you?" Haytham growled. Dammit, the boy planned for this! He probably intended to work Haytham into such a frenzy that he'd be blindly agree to anything Connor proposed! Unfortunately for Haytham, the trick was almost working. He was painfully hard and he could feel Connor's hot breath across the wet flesh, making his cock twitch in anticipation. While he could probably just shoo Connor away and finish himself off, it wasn't the same. He wanted his son's lips wrapped around his dick; he wanted to shoot his load down Connor's throat and feel him swallow every drop.

But was it worth the cost of letting Connor touch him in such a manner?

Haytham's brain momentarily shorted out as Connor stretched out his tongue to lightly, just barely, caress the wet head of his cock.

"Fine, but don't you DARE get any more ideas!" Haytham consented with a throaty growl. He shoved Connor's head to his groin again, bucking his hips lightly as his shaft rubbed against the Assassin's cheek. Connor was probably grinning victoriously, that damn bastard.

Haytham grudgingly spread his thighs and forced himself to relax. It had been over a decade since anyone fingered him, much less fucked him. While he was only allowing Connor so little freedom, it was still enough for his mind to panic. Thank god it was pitch black in the room. Haytham didn't think that he could stand it if Connor saw him blushing and making odd faces.

Haytham was thankful when Connor took his dick in his mouth again. The suction rippling pleasantly across his skin distracted him from the wandering finger prodding and poking at his entrance. He gasped despite himself as the Assassin breached the ring of muscle and keenly explored the tight heat. Connor groaned around his cock, clearly enjoying the experience as he gently wiggled his finger and experimentally thrust it in and out.

Haytham screwed his eyes shut and tried to think of Holden. While remembering his dead friend made his chest tighten with despair, it was also comforting. Sometimes, Holden did this. There had been nights when the two tangled in the sheets and Holden went down on Haytham while fingering him, making the Templar positively writhe in delight.

"You've done this before…" Connor growled against his cock, catching his wandering attention like a cat snatches a fly.

"Shut up and keep sucking," Haytham snarled half-heartedly. The Assassin responded with a grunt of annoyance and redoubled his efforts. He bobbed his head with expert precision as his digit slid fluidly in his father's willing hole. Connor even added another digit and gently scissored them, spreading Haytham's soft walls and pushing deeper in search for that special spot inside of him.

The Templar allowed his mind to wander back to mental images of Holden as he focused on the mind blowing warmth wrapped around his dick. He bit his lip to keep from calling out, from making any indecent noises aside from the grunts and gasps of pleasure. But when Connor found Haytham's prostate, he couldn't hold back the sudden moan that rumbled in his throat. The Assassin toyed with it mercilessly, poking and prodding and petting it savagely and lovingly. Haytham's hips bucked and jerked at the stimulation. His toes curled and his breath caught in his chest as flashes of light danced in his eyes and fire tore up his spine.

Haytham was dimly aware that he was moaning incoherently, his lip worried and swollen, his body taut as a bowstring, and his fingers twisted in Connor's hair. He came with a shout, muscles rigid and quivering as thick ribbons of cum erupted from his cock. His arm was shaking and his chest was heaving and throbbing as he slowly came down from the high. Haytham's hips still jerked gently against Connor's attentive tongue. His son cleaned up every drop and swallowed it down greedily. The Assassin's exploring fingers relished every moment by caressing his inner walls before slowly, reluctantly retracting.

"Hell…" Haytham snorted bitterly, his breath still short, "I thought I was too old for something like that."

Connor nuzzled Haytham's hipbone, pressing sloppy kisses to the sweaty skin as he scooted up the Templar's body. Connor took Haytham's hand, shaking as it was, and pressed it to the bulge in his breeches. The boy was rock hard and the fabric across his crotch was damp with precum and desire.

"Please…" Connor begged, bucking his hips into Haytham's hand. "Please let me…let me fuck you."

Haytham gripped the Assassin's crotch hard, eliciting a gasp of pain and pleasure. "Haven't I given you enough concessions?" he grumbled. "No, you selfish brat. You already fingered me. I'm not letting you fuck me, too."

Haytham thought that Connor might lash out at him, verbally or physically, and perhaps the boy thought about it, too. But instead, Connor keened and held Haytham's hand in place as he ground against it. He could hear the frustration, that something was wrong, but the Assassin's lust overshadowed everything else. "Fine! Then, please, help me! Just…please! Do something!"

Ah, should he take pity on the boy? Connor was an awfully presumptuous lout, but he had done so well with his mouth. And well…Haytham figured that the boy was ready to hump his leg lest he take the matter to hand.

Haytham fondled the bulge, feeling the shape and weight of Connor's cock straining against his trousers. "Get up here," he ordered, tugging on the Assassin's crotch.

Connor hissed as he bore weight on his bad leg, but managed to scrabble up until his knees were on either side of Haytham's chest. He didn't dare rest against his father's wound, but instead braced himself with the headboard.

"Haytham…" Connor moaned freely as his father fumbled with the laces of his breeches, cursing and muttering under his breath. Connor helped him, his hand still slick with bear grease, until his cock sprang free and proud.

Haytham jerked him, making his foreskin slide over the head of his cock and then back again, exposing the moist tip lewdly. He lapped at the swollen head of Connor's cock and relished the sigh of contentment. The lad was already on the brink. His dick was pulsing and his balls were tight and full. Haytham took more of the thick length into his mouth, working his tongue over the wet flesh and guiding Connor's hips with his shaking hand. It didn't take long for the Assassin's body to stutter.

"I am…I am g-going to—!" Connor warned. Haytham pulled his son's hips towards him, taking half the length into his mouth and sucking. The headboard creaked in protest as Connor came with a loud whine. Tremors shook his strong frame and his breath was strangled and harsh until his cock finished twitching.

Lazily, Connor pulled back, allowing his cock to slide free of his father's lips. He leaned down, breathless and trembling, and kissed the saliva and cum on Haytham's lips.

"Mmm…" Connor moaned softly, licking away any last residue and kissing the Templar firmly and possessively.

"You can untie me now," Haytham said none too gently.

"I do not know. This is an improvement," Connor teased even as he reached up to release his father's bonds. Haytham rotated his freed wrist before firmly swatting Connor on his ass.

"Brat," Haytham's frown was only lukewarm.

* * *

**January 18, 1785**

Connor thought that things might get better between them. He had been optimistic. Though Haytham's restlessness set them both on edge, it wasn't anything that they could avoid at the moment. They both needed to finish healing and they were safe on the Homestead. While Connor had wished that Haytham would eventually come to feel at home, he knew that such hope was in vain. If anything, the Templar's attitude only worsened as the winter wore on. Haytham's bones creaked and popped like rocks in a tin can first thing in the morning, and his mood dissipated with each passing hour. Connor did what he could to get out of the manor, but being chased out of his own home was silly. What kind of Mentor, what kind of man, allowed a bitter, old fool to take over his house? It made Connor angry.

The Assassin had tried to be patient. He had tried to be nice and polite and _right_ but it was so damn hard! He wanted to strike Haytham, to wrestle him down and make him submit! But he could not, not while both men were injured still. Connor could walk on his leg, and Haytham was gaining more mobility with his arm, but it wasn't worth risking another relapse. So since Connor's fists were no longer a solution, his words were the next best ammunition in his arsenal. He would say whatever he needed to in order to put Haytham in line. And when words failed? Their last ditch effort was usually rough, violent sex. Now, even that was becoming outmoded.

There was never a victory by either party.

"Why can I not fuck you?" Connor demanded. His fist bunched in Haytham's waistcoat as he throttled him to the nearest piece of furniture.

"Because I said so!" Haytham hissed as his spine dug into the wooden edge of the table in the parlor. He kneed Connor hard in the groin, making the lad purple and falter enough for Haytham to shove him to the floor. He straddled him, trying to pin his wrists above his head.

"That is not reason enough!" Connor shouted, wrenching one of his hands free and tugging Haytham by his ponytail.

"Have I not given you enough!? I've taught you how to kiss, how to achieve affection! So why don't you fuck that _Assassin bitch_ of yours until your dick is satisfied!?" Haytham hollered as he walloped Connor upside the head.

Things hadn't been going well, but they had never been this bad. The only good thing out of recent weeks was the sex, and even that was degrading into something too violent and spiteful. The two men were little better than wolves claiming dominance by attempting to mount one another. It was tiresome and Connor sometimes wondered if Haytham truly feared losing. Every time they took one step forward, they would inevitably fall another three steps back.

And yet still, Connor wanted to push it. He had initially thought that maybe he could see the differences in Haytham since reading his journals. He thought that maybe he could find that wonderful person that was kind and generous and truly in pursuit of peace. Instead, he only had a hollow shell of a man made bitter by time and decay like a piece of fruit left to rot in the sun.

It made Connor want to hate him.

He wanted to tear Haytham down, to make him fall to the bottom of the pit without his pride to keep him upright. He wanted to make Haytham bleed and beg for mercy.

It was wrong. Dear Spirits above, it was wrong. His mother would be ashamed of him.

"I hate you so much," Connor growled, his voice choked with blood from his split lip.

"The feeling's mutual," Haytham sputtered as the two wrestled. Finally, the two parted ways and darted to opposite sides of the room to gain their bearings. They were bloody and bruised and the furniture was carelessly strewn about the parlor as if it had been ransacked.

Connor wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, smearing the red across his face and grinning savagely. "I knew that you hated me. I have always known," his teeth were red with blood. "Mother told me that you had your reasons for leaving when I was younger, but I knew better. I knew that you left because you hated me."

Connor was fully aware that such an accusation was groundless. He had read the journals. Haytham hadn't even confirmed that Connor was his son until the incident at Bridewell Prison, so there was literally no way that Haytham could've hated him prior. But that didn't matter. Logic didn't matter. Connor just wanted Haytham to hurt.

Haytham gave a rough snort of laughter. He nursed a cut above his eyebrow and sneered. "I never would've guessed that fate would've been cruel enough to give me a literal heathen of a son. Maybe I ought to have raised you. If your mother hadn't reared you in such savagery, then you wouldn't be half the cretin today."

"No, it would have been the same. I made my choice to become an Assassin! The only difference would have been that you would have slept with me sooner!" Connor hissed, his dark eyes gleaming with rage.

Haytham's eyes narrowed as shock and an odd hurt flickered through his expression. Connor smirked triumphantly. The elder man charged forward and picked up a fallen wooden chair. It must have hurt his chest and arm, but the pain was insignificant as he lobbed the piece of furniture at Connor. The Assassin dodged the chair, wincing as it splintered and broke against the wall, but he couldn't dodge the incoming Templar. Haytham tackled him with a roar, his expression dark and beyond enraged. Connor fell to the floor as he wrestled his father. Haytham's fists were shaking as he punched Connor.

"You, you dare accuse me of-of… **OF THAT!? Of **_**pedophilia**_**!?**" Haytham roared, his face oddly pale.

Connor knew that Haytham was many things, but he wasn't a child molester. Even so, he could only glare at his father as the worst words hovered on the tip of his tongue and spilled like a spoonful of venom. "Considering the nature of our current relationship, I can only imagine that you would have been eager to start it sooner!" he caught Haytham hard in the jaw and shoved the man off of him. "You are attracted to young Natives! You like men—even your own son!" Connor crowed.

"I have never, EVER laid a hand on you that you didn't reject! You're a consenting adult! How DARE you imply that I ever took advantage of you!" Haytham scrabbled upright and attacked again.

"But I am still your son! We sleep together—we FUCK—and I am still your son!" Connor spat viciously.

Haytham snarled again, his lip rose like a hound's and his disheveled hair stood up like hackles. "I honestly wish that we weren't related because then," Haytham grit his teeth, "then, I wouldn't have ever been ashamed to have such a vain, hypocritical sodomite born from my loins! I'm honestly mortified that you're my son."

Connor said nothing. He could only pause and catch his breath as Haytham stumbled towards the doorway and began exiting the room.

"It's not often that I regret my relationship with your mother," he called over his shoulder, "but now, I wish you were never born."

Connor didn't get the chance to spit any venom back before Haytham rounded the corner and left.

He should have felt pleased with himself. He won the argument, he won the fight. He should've felt relieved and happy. Instead, there was nothing but a sour pit in his stomach and his body ached from the brawl. The room was in complete disarray and he knew that he should fix it, that he should make things right, but frankly…he didn't want to. He had won and Haytham had lost. But why did he feel so hollow?

It was late. Dinner time had already passed and Connor wasn't in the mood to make anything. So instead, he grabbed his crutch and headed towards Olive and Corrine's inn. They would still be open. And even though Connor didn't want anyone to see him in such a low state, maybe it would help if he were to surround himself with his friends. They cared about him. They helped him and he helped them and none of them had to worry about coming to blows or accusing each other of crimes uncommitted. There weren't any dirty, unlawful secrets aside from keeping the Brotherhood out of conversations. That was it. There was no sodomy, no murder, and no incest. There was only the warmth of a bright fire and the promise of good food and strong drink.

Connor couldn't help but limp past the stables on his way out the door. Good. The horses were still there. It meant that Haytham probably went for a walk as well, but he hadn't fled entirely. Besides, the injured man probably wouldn't get far in his condition. Connor did his best to push Haytham out of his mind as he trekked to the inn.

Upon arrival, Terry and Godfrey were still there, already drunk and gambling with some of the sailors from the Aquila. Connor solemnly sat at the bar.

"Evening, Connor! Not often we see you here so late at night. To what do we owe this honor?" Oliver dried a clean glass with his towel, and then paused to scrutinize the Assassin. His demeanor sobered immediately. "Are you alright, lad? You've got a bit of red there."

Connor scrubbed his face on his arm again. Some of the dried blood flaked onto his sleeve. "It is nothing," he didn't give any more explanation and thankfully, Oliver didn't ask for one. Instead, he served Connor up one of the evening specials and even threw in a free mug of ale.

"Hey, I know you don't drink like these blokes," Oliver motioned to Terry and Godfrey, "but I don't think it'd hurt you one bit to unwind a little."

Connor glanced dubiously at the amber liquid. It was a tempting offer, but he had only been 'properly' drunk once before (courtesy of Stephan and Clipper and Jaime buying rounds for him two Christmas' ago) and it wasn't an experience he was looking to repeat. But then again… it was tempting. The idea of blaming his problems on a simple drink sounded far better than actually thinking about it. Connor ate some of his meal, and then drank half of the mug of ale in one drag.

He was into his second mug already when Godfrey stumbled up behind him and clapped him on the shoulder. Thankfully, Connor's reactions were already belated enough that he registered the offender before striking out at him. He didn't want to hurt his friends.

"Oi! Connor! Lookit you, I didn't know you drank! 'EY! OLLIE! Give this man another round! He's parched as a fish on a spit!" the lumberjack hollered.

Connor didn't argue as another mug was passed in front of him.

"So why the long face?" Godfrey hauled his bulk onto a stool and nursed his beer. "Eh, speaking of faces, looks like yours got a bit messed up! You and your pappy get in another brawl?"

Connor nodded. "It is not as bad as it looks."

"No, but it still drove you here! Not that I mind your company, but if you need some help showin' that old guy his place, then we'll be happy to lend you a hand," Godfrey punched his own fist a few times for emphasis.

Connor shook his head, drank the rest of his mug, and slammed it down on the counter. "He just…just _pisses me off_ so much!

"He struts around my manor, ordering me about and lecturing my own finances! He tells me what to do in my own home! My own home!" Connor growled. "If I knew he had a safe place to stay, I would throw him out! But as it is, he is invasive, bossy, and-and RUDE! and there is nothing that I can do about it!"

"Is that what happened tonight?"

Connor nodded, and then shook his head. "Yes…no…I started the fight this evening. And I finished it, too."

"Why?"

"…My father is difficult to predict. He will be cordial one moment, even polite, and the next he will be abrasive and irritable and completely resistant! It is as if he notices when he grows complacent and seeks to ruin it as soon as possible! Sometimes…sometimes when things are going too well between us, I try to break it up before he does. That way…that way, he cannot be the one to hurt me."

Godfrey took another long drink of his mug. The froth clung to his mustache and beard. "Yanno, it kinda reminds me of this old fucker that I used to work with while me an' Terry were movin' around so much. He was an older guy, maybe about as old as your pappy, and while his body was slowin' down, his mind was still quick as a whip. And he was as cranky as a cat without a tail.

"I got in a row with him once, but it thankfully never came to blows. Later on, he told me why he was so damn resistant, though. It's because he was old, ya see. His time had passed and things were a-changin' and when things change and old folks can't keep up, it scares the damn right shit out of them. So he acted out, puffin' out his chest and struttin' his shit like he was still the king of the damn world. Anything less, and he wouldn't be able to play with the young'ns like us! He didn't want us to see him as this feeble old fuck that he was!"

"But I respect my father!"

"Do you? I mean, I don't know what the hell you two are like as far as family goes, but I know that as long as I've lived here, I've always thought of Achilles as your pappy more than some British fucker who's never seen you growin' up. I'm not sayin' that you should replace Achilles—no one can fill that gap—but maybe you two are gettin mixed up on the whole father-and-son thing."

Connor snorted derisively. "You have _no_ idea."

Godfrey raised an eyebrow, but shook his head. "Pickin' fights with him doesn't sound respectful at all, but maybe try givin' it one more go. If he doesn't play nice, if he keeps pickin' at you like a crow, then kick him the fuck out. You don't owe him anything, whether he's injured and has a place to stay or not. Remember, the bastard abandoned you as a babe. And while that's damn good reason to not give him the time of day, I know that you're a good person and that you'll try what you can."

Connor nodded and drank more. Yes. It was a good idea. He'd try to be respectful again to Haytham, he'd try to make him feel at home and comfortable and maybe remind him gently that he's a guest. Maybe Haytham would even let Connor fuck him. That would be nice, but the thought of their last encounter still made red hot rage well up in Connor's chest.

When Connor had been sucking Haytham off, when he'd been giving him everything he needed and wanted, Haytham had moaned another's name.

_'Holden! Oh god, Holden!'_ his father had cried just before orgasming in Connor's mouth. At the time, it had bothered Connor, but not enough to address the issue. His raging boner had been much more interesting. But in the past few weeks, that breathless whine had been haunting Connor.

He wasn't Jim Holden. He could never be Jim Holden.

Was that the last man to fuck his father, to take his ass and make him scream? Connor had entertained the idea that Charles Lee and Haytham might've been an, ugh, an item. But if they had been, it wasn't the relationship that Holden had provided.

Haytham was still hung up on his dead lover.

Rage and jealousy churned in Connor's chest as he lost count of the drinks he consumed. How dare Haytham compare Connor to Jim Holden! They were different people entirely! Of course Connor could never live up to the reputation of a dead man that's held on some saintly esteem! But why should the mere memory of Jim Holden be enough to keep Haytham's affection? He was dead!

It was a good idea at the time, what with Godfrey and Terry making bets to see how much he could drink. It was finally Oliver that cut them all off and sent them on their way, casting worried glances to Connor. The Assassin vaguely remembered getting into a short brawl with someone, and then stumbling about as he tried to navigate his way outside to piss. Somewhere along the way, he accidentally broke a table, but he didn't quite remember how, only that he was apologizing profusely and couldn't keep track of which of his drunken words were English and which ones were Mohawk.

Somehow, he made it home to the manor with his crutch still tucked safely under one arm as he stumbled up the hill. Then, before he knew it, he was up the stairs of his manor, his crutch forgotten at the front door and Haytham was yelling something at him.

"You idiot! Are you drunk!? Are you actually, legitimately, drunk?"

Connor couldn't figure out the words that Haytham was spouting. He was loud, really loud. So instead, Connor tried to quiet him with a kiss. Haytham dodged, disgust written all over his face.

"Oh god, you smell like piss and booze!"

"I am not Holden!" Connor yelled vehemently.

Haytham was admittedly confused. "What the blazes are you talking about, boy? I know that!"

Connor tackled him lazily, but firmly. "You said, you called out for him, for Holden," Connor tried to explain. "When I was giving you head, you said Holden's name, not mine!"

Haytham had the dignity to look horrified. He struggled under Connor's weight as the Native pinned him down by his shoulders. Connor even pressed hard on the bandaged stab wound in his chest, making Haytham gasp and curse colorfully.

"Dammit, get off of me!" he hollered.

Connor didn't want to. He would show Haytham what a good lover he could be. He would prove that he was better than a dead man.

"Oh god, you are NOT doing this!" Haytham's struggles became more fervent, more panicked. Connor vaguely thought that Haytham shouldn't be scared, not one bit. Haytham was old, but Connor liked older partners. Haytham shouldn't be scared. It was only Connor's hand down the front of his underdrawers, tugging the flaccid penis and trying to wedge his way between his father's legs. It was okay. He didn't have any bear grease on him right now, but he'd be gentle. Connor ground his erection against Haytham's thigh. Damn, he was so hard. He just wanted to make his father see what a good lover he could be. He wanted to make Haytham scream out his name and orgasm because of Connor's dick. He would take him, make him moan and beg, and forget all about Jim Holden. It didn't matter that Haytham was screaming, roaring for him to stop. Connor didn't want to stop. He would get what he wanted from his father. He would show him how much he didn't hate him.

A sharp pain shot up his leg, making him wince. Oh, that was right. His leg was injured. But the distraction was just enough for Haytham to push Connor off of him. When the Assassin tried to stand, his hard cock still hanging out of his breeches, Haytham lashed out again, raining blow after raging blow upon his son before finally pushing him down the stairs.

Then, the world was spinning as he tumbled down the staircase. Connor knew it hurt. His head hurt and his arm hurt and his leg hurt, and he noticed that a few of the balusters on the railing were missing now. But it didn't seem to matter. He whined for his father, and struggled upright. Oh, that's right, he was drunk. It was no wonder it was so difficult to stand.

Haytham was at the top of the stairs, fully dressed with his overcoat, cape, and tricorn hat. His hidden blades and sword glittered dangerously in the dark as he descended the staircase.

"F-father…" Connor finally got his legs under him as he reached out.

Haytham's face was a mask of complete and utter rage.

Connor recoiled. He had never seen anyone so angry before.

Haytham grabbed his outstretched hand and broke Connor's ring finger right on the spot. Connor lashed out, trying to attack, but his movements were slow and clumsy. Haytham punched him repeatedly in the face, and kicked him time and again in the torso. Blood was everywhere and Connor only dimly recognized that it was his. When Haytham finally finished, his knuckled bloody and his breath heavy, he leaned down to his son and wrenched his head back so Connor's hazy, swollen eyes could look at him.

"If I ever see you again, I will kill you," he promised.

Haytham dropped Connor's head back to the floor, turned on his heel, and left.

Connor curled in a ball, trying to recall what he did wrong, what he did to merit such abuse. Then, he remembered.

Connor just tried to rape his father.


	17. Chapter 16

**January 19, 1785**

* * *

Sixteen. There were sixteen Templars crawling around Boston like ants. These ones moved differently than the ones of the past; they were more eager to blend in with crowds, and more slippery than an eel. In fact, they almost would've flown under the Assassins' noses if not for a scout's keen eyes while performing his regular patrol. He caught a glimpse of a Templar cross embroidered in dark brown thread on a traveler's black glove. While the scout hadn't been able to decipher if the cross was the same as the sample that Connor provided them, Clipper Wilkinson still felt it prudent to rally up his Assassins and contact Duncan Little.

The morning was late and people were slowly trickling into the streets, despite the falling snow. Most of the homeless and orphans had already taken shelter until the sky stops falling. But while the Templars had been difficult to track before, they were nearly ghosts now.

"Any updates?" Clipper carefully navigated across an icy roof to one of his recruits.

"Aye, sir. I've got some strange movement, but I don't know if he's one of our targets," the Assassin said, his spyglass still honed in on the trespasser in question. "He's an older fellow—not quite dressed for this weather, but he's no vagrant either. He's been picking pockets in the market and I've gotta say, he's damn good. People aren't even noticing their purses have been lifted. I've got my eye on him now, but I keep losing him."

Clipper crawled on his belly, ignoring the chill, until he was next to his Assassin. The recruit handed over the spyglass and pointed in a vague direction. It took Clipper a moment to find the suspicious thief, and a moment more to recognize him.

"Shit," Clipper cursed. It was Haytham Kenway. But what was he doing in Boston and why was he pickpocketing folks? Connor had assured his Master Assassins that Haytham was under house arrest and that he was too injured to travel. But here he was, in Boston and committing crimes already. Connor had told them that Haytham and the Assassins had a common goal now, and that they were working together. Somehow, Clipper found himself doubting his Mentor's trust in the former Grandmaster. "Have you seen the Mentor in the area?" Clipper asked his recruit. The lad had not.

Clipper handed the spyglass back to his subordinate. "Watch him, but keep your distance. Whatever happens, do not engage."

"Who is he?" the lad asked with his eyes wide.

"A Templar—a very dangerous one at that. He may not be working with our other targets, but consider him an enemy until further notice. If he spots you or confronts you, you must escape. Do not risk fighting him."

The young Assassin nodded. He was one of Clipper's best scouts; hopefully, he could remain anonymous while spying on the ex-Grandmaster. In the meantime, Clipper needed to update Duncan Little. He hustled across town through the underground tunnels and located his comrade in a lonely alleyway.

Duncan was speaking with one of his own Assassins, a promising recruit named William de Saint-Prix. They paused to regard Clipper.

"Bad news," the sniper approached. Duncan nodded to William and stepped aside. Once they were out of earshot, Clipper quietly relayed the information. Connor had requested that his Master Assassins keep Haytham Kenway's resurrection as discreet as possible, but it was difficult considering he was traipsing about their city now.

Duncan nodded. "That's the same thing that William was just telling me. 'E said that the Sharpshooter friend of his spotted Haytham Kenway moving to the southern market. Caleb's watching 'im now, too."

Clipper glanced at the Huntsman. He was one of the few Assassins who knew that Haytham Kenway was still alive; hell, he had even let the former Grandmaster stay at his plantation at the Mentor's request.

"You're sure that it was him?" Clipper asked.

William nodded. "I didn't see him myself, but I trust Caleb's eyes with my life. He knows who he saw."

"Any guesses why he's here and unescorted?"

"No, but Caleb spotted him talking to the harbormaster at the port. Since I doubt there's going to be any ships sailing in this weather, he's probably going to stock up on supplies and flee on horse. I don't know why, but it appears that he's trying to get out of the city."

Clipper cursed again. "There's a good chance he's either slipped out of the Homestead without permission or else he's murdered Connor and is trying to escape. Either way, we must detain him."

"William, ye're my only Level 5 Assassin and 'ye know Kenway more personally than we do," Duncan set his hand on the Frenchman's shoulder. "Can ye get close to flush 'im out?"

William nodded and they made a plan.

The Assassins melted back into the city. They wanted to send a messenger to the Homestead to check if Connor was alive, but the recent Templar threat to the city didn't provide them with enough coverage. Stephane was still in Georgia and while Clipper and Duncan had taken to leading his recruits and canvassing his territory, they were spread thinner than they would like.

Duncan was frustrated, but he knew that he'd simply have to wait to ensure the Mentor's well-being. Fortunately, he didn't have to wait for long.

As Duncan was securing one of the roads that led to the Frontier, a weary traveler arrived on horse. The horse's breath was hard and let out little puffs of mist into the chilled air as if it had been running and the rider was dazed to the point of nearly falling from the saddle. But despite the hooded, somewhat misshapen face, Duncan recognized the thin blanket clutched around his shoulders. It looked just like the throw blanket that was draped over the back of one of Connor's settees. Duncan almost brushed it off as mere coincidence, but a gut feeling urged him to make a closer inspection.

The traveler tried to spur his horse forward, but the animal grunted, whinnied, and denied a response. While they were distracted, Duncan casually walked closer. He was shocked.

It was Connor. The Mentor's face was covered in dry blood and swollen about the eyes and cheek and his nose was oddly crooked, but those robes were undeniable. The Mentor's waistcoat was buttoned unevenly and his spats weren't tied up tightly enough, making them sag and drag his breeches down a little. His left ring finger was also swollen and cocked at a strange angle.

"Mentor! Mentor, thank God ye're alive!" Duncan closed the gap between them as Connor halted his horse and tried to focus. One eye was completely swollen shut, and while the other was still puffy, it could still see.

"D-Duncan," Connor slurred, his teeth clacking as he shivered unconsciously.

The Irishman hesitated. Connor smelled like stale booze and blood. "Mentor—Connor—ye' must take shelter in this weather. Follow me; I'll get ye' somewhere warm." Rage and sorrow threatened to well in Duncan's chest. That damn Templar did this! He knew it!

Connor shook his head, winced, and then urged his horse forward. "N-No. I must find H-Haytham," he chattered.

Duncan jogged alongside the animal. "Our recruits are already working on apprehending him, Mentor! Please, you need to rest and warm up before you catch your death!"

"Th-then he is in Boston st-still?" A flicker of hope glimmered in Connor's single visible eye.

"Aye, some of our scouts 'ave spotted the damn traitor and we intend to bring 'im to justice for hurting ye' and trying to flee!" Duncan frowned a little. "What h'appened, if I may ask?"

Connor sighed and drew his horse to the side of the road. Despite the pain, his brows were furrowed. "I…I m-made another mis-mistake…" he whispered hoarsely. "I m-must find him. I must a-apologize, but I-I do n-not think that he will for-forgive me..."

Duncan raised an eyebrow as he shrugged off his coat and tried to throw it up on Connor's shoulders. Surely Connor couldn't have done anything to merit such a beating. "Connor, what h'appened?" he tried again. Had the Templar gone mad and attacked the Assassin Mentor? Were his recruits in more danger than he originally anticipated?

Connor pursed his split lips and shook his head again. "I c-cannot say…"

Duncan fought the impulse to curse. Instead, he urged Connor from his horse and helped him limp towards a small tavern. There, they warmed up and tended to Connor's wounds. Duncan even had a few coins to spare; he bought a proper cloak. But every time he tried to pry for more information, the injured Native dodged the question or blatantly refused to answer.

Duncan worried, even as he helped Connor to properly tie his belt and button his waistcoat. Were his recruits safe? Was the Brotherhood compromised? What if Haytham Kenway was working with the Templars in the city and this was some grand scheme to sabotage the Mentor? It was plausible for such a despicable person as Haytham to manipulate his own son into trusting him, only to turn around, beat the tar out of him, and flee with his Templar comrades. But if Duncan even so much as suggested Haytham's betrayal, Connor would snap at him. The injured Assassin insisted that Haytham wasn't at fault, but would give no further details or reasoning. The only thing that Duncan could know for certain was that Connor had a few too many rounds the night before. The Mentor was still mildly drunk, despite his attempted coherency, and a hangover was sure to follow.

When Duncan spoke about the recent Templar sightings, Connor was clearly disturbed. But rather than distract the Mentor from his one-track goal of locating Haytham, it only seemed to intensify it. Connor was even more impatient as he fretted over the well-being of his comrades and his father. He insisted that they move as soon as they finished cleaning the blood from Connor's face.

Duncan muttered a prayer under his breath and hoped that Connor knew what he was doing.

* * *

Haytham knew that he was being followed. He knew that he was being watched.

Some of the Assassins on his tail really were good at tracking, but the others were still too green and had much to learn. If only Haytham wasn't injured! He could climb the icy rooftops and evade them with ease. Boston had been so much simpler to navigate when it was still under Templar control. Now, he felt as if he were walking about a field littered with hidden trip-mines. His Eagle Vision helped to some degree, but he was running out of crowds to blend with and places to slip away from his pursuers. And to make matters worse, Haytham realized that the Assassins weren't the only enemies in Boston. The strange new Templars were there, too, likely scouting sources of information.

Haytham cursed under his breath. At least he stole plenty of coin. Should he manage to actually sneak off to a general store, he would have enough to fund a trip for a month or so. But these blasted Assassins were _making it so damn difficult!_ Sneaking around Boston with a target on his back was already bad enough, but his shoulder was aching and stiffer than usual and his chest burned unpleasantly. Both developments were thanks to Connor's drunken attack. Haytham snarled and felt his stomach flip at the thought. He pushed the memory aside and focused on the state of his body. He knew that his cracked rib was still healing, but he had admittedly expected it to have healed more by now. Unfortunately, if the sharp pain with each intake of breath was any indication, he still had a long time to go. Dammit, he was too old for this! If he was already too damn weak to fight off his drunken idiot of a son, then how on earth would he defend himself from a Templar attack!?

A traitorous part of his mind contemplated going back to the Homestead and trying to solve the conflicts with Connor. No. That wasn't an option. Haytham couldn't trust that moron again; much less would he be able to make peace with him. He just couldn't do it, not when the boy was constantly making him compromise his morals for a tenuous blood relation. It was easier to run.

But how long could he keep running? The ride to Boston was already enough to virtually immobilize his shoulder with pain and he would be downright pathetic in a fight. Even though Connor was also injured, there was no doubt in Haytham's mind that the boy would doggedly pursue Haytham until they were either both captured or both killed.

Haytham cursed under his breath as he spotted another Assassin creeping towards him. He blended with a nearby crowd, eager to lose himself in the throng of people, only to find a sharp piece of metal pressing lightly into his left side.

"Don't run and don't fight. Just come with me."

Haytham frowned at the familiar voice and glanced at his peripheral vision. Damn him. It was William de Saint-Prix and his stupid hat sitting atop his stupid hood. Haytham had nearly walked right into the Frenchman while trying to flee the other Assassin. It was such a stupid, novice mistake.

"What is it that you people want with me?" Haytham murmured under his breath.

"I don't want to kill you unless you give me good cause," William replied. "We'll talk in a moment."

Haytham didn't have a choice. He kept his chin proudly raised and his posture perfect as he was led to a lonely alley and down into some old tunnels. William must have noticed his injury; the Frenchman kept to his left side, hovering in his blind spot and far away from his good hand.

Once the cellar door clapped shut, it took Haytham's eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. He used his Eagle Vision to count the Assassins. There were four of them aside from William, each with a weapon trained on him.

"I take it you're the welcoming committee," Haytham said blandly.

"Enough with your damn jokes, Templar!" one of the Assassins spat, "Tell us what you're doing in Boston! Tell us what you Templar scoundrels are planning!"

Haytham sneered. "Fool, I've nothing to do with the Templars in this city. But even if I did, I certainly wouldn't answer to you."

"Where's Connor?" another Assassin asked. It was Caleb Garret, with his rifle poised to fire. For some reason, Haytham's chest constricted.

"I'm not his nursemaid. If you want him, then go find him yourself," Haytham growled. "Now if you're going to shoot me, then just pull the trigger and get this over with. Otherwise, I've much better things to do than play games with Assassins."

Some of them clearly thought that shooting was the better option, but William spoke first. "Templar or not, if you didn't do anything wrong then there's no reason for us to kill you. We're going to detain you, and if you're innocent, then the Mentor will determine when you will be freed."

"Tch, I don't know why our Captains ordered all of us to capture one old bloke! He's not nearly as dangerous as they said!" one of the Assassins said. Ah, so they didn't know that he was Haytham Kenway, the former Templar Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite, else they would've already fired upon him. There was no doubt that William and Caleb had yet to divulge this information to their lesser comrades. But even so, Haytham did not want mercy. It was already shameful enough that he was sexually assaulted by a man half his age, but then to think that he, Haytham Kenway, resorted to petty thievery to fund his travels and was then captured by a handful of second-rate Assassins? It was outrageous.

"Raise your hands where I can see them. I'm going to disarm you," William ordered sternly. With little other choice, Haytham did as he was told, fighting back the wince as he moved his left arm. The other Assassins were green. He could take them. But Haytham had seen William spar with Caleb; he knew that it would actually take effort and full mobility to defeat the Frenchman. Pity that he had neither to spare at the moment.

Although the Huntsman didn't speak a word to Haytham, he could see the dialogue on the tip of his tongue. William glanced at him fiercely, but curiously. _'What happened between you two?'_ he questioned mutely. Haytham didn't bother responding; he opted to only stare stonily at his former host. William left the question alone and carefully removed Haytham's sword and one hidden blade.

The cellar door clapped open with an echo loud enough to startle the Assassins. Even William glanced towards the door in shock. Haytham took advantage of the distraction and spun around, whipping out his pistol. He didn't need to see the intruder first to know who it was. He didn't need William's hushed, horrified 'Mentor!' Haytham knew.

He leveled his pistol at Connor, his jaw clenched and his ears pounding.

"Don't move," he snarled. "I told you that I'd kill you if I ever saw you again, dammit! Not another step closer!"

Connor paused on the short staircase, his lone good eye likely adjusting to the light. Haytham hated himself for briefly thinking that Connor shouldn't be up and walking on that leg and that his face looked absolutely horrible. He hated it. He was so weak. Another man stood behind Connor, the Assassin that dressed something akin to a priest.

"Father…" The Mentor tried.

"SILENCE! You don't have the right to call me that!" Haytham roared, his anger bouncing off of the damp stone walls. He could feel the confusion radiating from the small regiment behind him. He could feel the barrels of their guns still trained on his back.

"Please lower your weapon. We can still talk," Connor offered, his words only slightly slurred by his swollen mouth.

"Ha!" Haytham barked. "I've killed more men for lesser crimes than yours!"

"Then what is stopping you now! You spared my life for a reason!" Connor shouted.

Haytham pressed his lips into a thin line to keep the words from tumbling out of his mouth like a loose tooth.

Connor leaned against the stone wall to take the weight off of his bad leg. "Please, just lower your weapon and we'll talk somewhere private," he offered again.

"…If you give a man an inch, he'll take a mile," Haytham said after a time, his pistol still unwavering. He wouldn't be a victim again.

"But if you fire upon me, my men will kill you. How will you stop the Templars if you die now? All of your efforts will have been for nothing!"

A cruel part of his brain reminded him of his own transgressions. He had always promised Holden that he wouldn't become a monster—that he wouldn't become like Birch. But in the end of his reign as Grandmaster, he could feel the corruption sluggishly churning through his veins like half-congealed rot. Yet he survived and fought to make things right again. If he could destroy the relics, then his debt to society would be paid and his soul could rest in peace. But if he shot Connor now, then he would never have the chance to redeem himself and humanity would be doomed.

Haytham wanted to insist that he could save the world by himself, but he knew that was a lie. He was old and injured and only one man. But the boy was no better than the evils he claimed to fight against.

Footsteps echoed from the long passageway to their right. Neither Haytham nor Connor turned to look as a young lad, distressed and out of breath, sprinted towards them.

"Master Little! Master Little!" the boy shouted. The Assassin in the vaguely priest-like robes regarded him with a wary nod of his chin, but still didn't dare to step away from Connor.

"Aye, lad, what is it?" he requested calmly despite the tense situation.

The boy looked about, horrified that he was interrupted something obviously important, but continued with another permissive nod from his Master Assassin. "It's Davey! He was supposed to report an hour ago, but I can't find him! I only found his sword and it's covered in blood, sir!"

The Master Assassin visibly winced, guilt burned across his face, as he muttered a short hail to God. Haytham understood; there were Templars running amok in Boston and some of the best Assassins were cooped in the tunnels with Haytham. The Templars took advantage of their uneven forces.

"Ace, Cricket, and Dodger—locate our missing comrade," he ordered, using the Assassins' code names. The three men reluctantly lowered their weapons. With a hesitant nod, they cast one more worried glance to their Mentor and their enemy before sprinting down the tunnels.

"As much as I'd like to see ye' two reach a conclusion, we've more important matters at hand," the Master Assassin rounded on Connor and Haytham. "I don't know what h'appened and right now, I don't care. We've got a city full of Templars and we've reason to believe that it's the same new breed that the Mentor briefed us on. That means they're after ye' both, and neither of ye' are in fighting condition."

Haytham frowned. The Master Assassin was right. He slowly lowered his pistol and holstered it. Caleb and William both let out audible sighs of relief.

"I'm only cooperating because I don't want any civilians involved," Haytham grumbled.

"Duly acknowledged," the Irishman said dryly. "Huntsman and Sharpshooter—separate and protect the Mentor and 'is…father."

"Sir," they both said in unison.

Caleb lightly pulled Haytham's arms behind his back, apologizing quietly at the hiss of pain, and secured his wrists with a worn belt. "Nothing personal, Haytham—I just can't have you pulling another stunt like that."

Haytham thought to be offended, but he couldn't help but be distracted by the utter sorrow and regret stamped across Connor's lumpy face.

Caleb steered Haytham down a different tunnel and led him through the underground maze. It felt like an eternity until they finally reached another door. Haytham's shoulder was on fire from being tied behind his back and he couldn't even take a half-breath of air without agony shooting through his chest.

"Listen Haytham, I'm gonna untie you, okay," Caleb faced the elder man. "I'm gonna trust you not to flip out and try to kill me and I need you to trust me not to hurt you. We've traveled and fought and eaten and slept and shit on our travels together. I know we've not always gotten along, but I've trusted you with my life and vice versa."

"What makes you think that I won't take advantage of your generosity?" Haytham sneered.

Caleb just shrugged and smiled sheepishly. "Hope."

The ropes fell away and Caleb walked ahead of Haytham, completely entrusting his back to the Templar.

Haytham rubbed his tender wrists, straightened his waistcoat, and followed.

They exited at the Green Dragon Inn, and a wave of nostalgia nearly overwhelmed Haytham. Still, he kept his demeanor about him and followed Caleb up the stairs and to a private meeting room. The Sharpshooter ordered some medical supplies and a stiff drink to be delivered to the room.

"Let me look at your shoulder," Caleb suggested.

Haytham narrowed his eyes and scoffed. "No."

The Assassin raised a questioning eyebrow. "It's obviously hurting you."

"It's fine."

Caleb snatched Haytham's hat and held it above his head. "C'mon then, reach with your left hand."

Haytham glared at the Sharpshooter, but didn't even bother trying. "Fine!" he snapped. "You've made your point! But I don't need it looked at!"

Caleb rolled his eyes and set the tricorn hat on a desk. "Okay, okay. Then tell me something else," Caleb pulled up two chairs and straddled his backwards, "Why'd you beat the shit out of Connor? I know you two have fought like cats and dogs before, but never to that extent and never so one sided. You've never been so desperate before. So what happened?"

"Oh, so you're interrogating me now, too?" Haytham eyed the offered chair and reluctantly sat. He was terribly tired.

"No, I'm curious, really," Caleb shrugged. "I mean, I'm kinda pissed that you hurt Connor so badly, but I know that you always have a reason for brawling with him. I just wanna know if the reason really justifies the damage."

Haytham rubbed his temples and chuckled darkly. "That's none of your business. Now if you don't mind, I'd rather be locked in a cell than answer your errant inquiries."

Caleb opened his mouth to say something, but there was a knock at the door. One of the employees delivered the medical supplies, some food, and a couple of drinks to their door. Caleb thanked the woman and locked the door again behind her. He offered a plate of food to Haytham. The Templar sneered at the dish, but his stomach took the opportunity to growl rather loudly. Reluctantly, he ate.

Meanwhile, Caleb talked incessantly about inane things. He talked about teaching William how to shoot more efficiently, how much milk the cows were giving, how the house was so much quieter without Haytham and Connor bickering, and so on and so forth. Haytham didn't want to listen. He was intent on brooding and holding tightly to his rage. But as the stupid stories wore on about livestock and burnt dinners and impromptu haircuts, Haytham found himself relaxing. That is, until Caleb took a sip of his beer. As soon as the smell of alcohol hit his nostrils, Haytham recoiled. If Caleb noticed, he said nothing.

Finally, he sighed and looked at a loss for how to say something. The Sharpshooter scrubbed the back of his head and fiddled with his coat until Haytham finally lost his patience and demanded that he just say whatever is on his mind.

"Well…uh…how to put this," Caleb tried. "When you and Connor were at the plantation with us, I mean, I've traveled with you for a long time and I noticed that something was off, but I figured that you two were just sorting out your issues, but uh, when you and Connor were at the plantation—"

"Oh dear lord, _out with it!_" Haytham rolled his eyes.

"We heard you…yanno…screwing."

Oh.

Oh, that wasn't what Haytham had been expecting at all.

His face visibly paled and he unconsciously flexed his hands as if to eject his hidden blades.

"…Come again?" Haytham's voice was strained with horror.

Caleb fidgeted like a child caught skipping his lessons. "It's just…it's been on my mind a lot and…uh, I just wanted to let you know that, um, William and I heard you two…yanno… It's not like I wanted to know! I mean, it's one thing for men to sleep together like that, but since you two are, yanno, _related_ I just didn't know how to feel about it!"

Haytham stood, knocking over his chair, and paced about the room. "How many people know?" he hissed, pinching his nose bridge.

"Just William and I," Caleb confessed. "We haven't told anyone, and we wouldn't anyways. It would ruin Connor's reputation and he can't lead the Brotherhood with something like…incest…hanging over his head."

Haytham fought the urge to bash his head against the wall.

"It's not like I care that much! Well…I take that back, it is really weird and gross, but um, it's none of my business," Caleb continued. He sighed to collect his thoughts and spoke again with an embarrassed flush. "And…well…William and I…we're sodomites. It took a few months for William and me to come to terms with your guys'…um, relationship. But it's not like I'm really in a place to judge what you and Connor do. I just…As long as you two don't hurt anyone with it, as long as no one else gets involved, then… Listen, incest is really gross and wrong, but if I can turn a blind eye to murder and sabotage and sodomy, then I figure I can turn a blind eye to that.

"I just wanted to let you know that your secret was safe with us."

Haytham could feel the fear creep into his spine. He could feel panic trying to gnaw at his mind and make him lash out. But beneath that, there was something else that felt suspiciously like relief. He set his hands on the windowsill and focused on taking deep, even breaths despite his protesting rib. The shutters would be easy to unlock from inside and he could just leap out and flee. He knew the Green Dragon well enough that he could navigate the roofs with his eyes closed. But no, it wouldn't do him any good.

He reluctantly sat back down, his hands folded in his lap to keep from shaking. "Why...why would you bring that up?" he asked.

"To prove to you that if I wanted to hurt you and ruin your life, I would. But I haven't. And I don't want to. You're a jerk, but I've met people a helluva lot worse than you. If you're sincere about saving the world and humanity and all of that, then you deserve the benefit of the doubt," Caleb shrugged. "Now may I see your shoulder?"

Haytham couldn't stand to look at Caleb. He knew that he shouldn't have traveled with them! He knew that the idiot was a liability! But at the same time, part of him was okay that Caleb had discovered his and Connor's little secret. It was like exhaling a breath that he had held for too long.

Haytham reluctantly unbuttoned his coat and slid it from his shoulders with a hiss. His waistcoat was next, but he hesitated at removing his undershirt. Caleb was just another man, one who had seen other men nude plenty of times, so it wasn't completely indecent to bare his chest. At least, that's what Haytham assured himself as he finally shed the undershirt.

To his credit, Caleb didn't do anything so embarrassing as gasp or curse or comment. He only frowned disapprovingly as he stooped beside Haytham and inspected the bruises.

Haytham's chest and neck were littered with dark hickeys and both of his arms had magnificent, angry bruises in the shape of Connor's hand. Even his hip sported dark purple, finger-shaped splotches. A few bite marks, still half-flecked with dry blood, decorated Haytham's collar and chest.

"…He really did merit his beating," Caleb idly mused. The Sharpshooter ignored the indignant flush and huff that followed and fetched the medical supplies. Caleb spread ointment along the puffy bruises and cleaned the bite marks.

"Your chest looks like it's healing well," Caleb focused on the month and a half old stab wound. "You'll probably be able to start rehabilitating your arm soon. If you ever wanna work on your shooting, and I'm still hanging around Boston, you're welcome to come down. Hell, if you just don't wanna stick around the Homestead, I'm sure I can convince William to let you stay at his place. You guys need to finish your chess game, after all."

Haytham grunted in response. It was already difficult enough to keep from shoving Caleb aside and fleeing the building, but he didn't have the patience to also keep a conversation. The Assassin seemed to have noticed and didn't speak again until Haytham was bandaged and fully clothed once more. A thick silence passed between them.

"…He didn't get far. I'm not a victim," Haytham finally offered, swallowing the lump in his throat as he studied something on the wall. "He was drunk—very, very drunk, and I like to think that he never would've done that had he been in his right mind."

"…In your opinion, is Connor still fit to lead the Brotherhood?"

Haytham thought about the question, his brows furrowed tightly and his arms crossed over his chest. "…I believe so. Despite his…series of terrible choices, he still cares about the Assassin cause and he seems to have qualms over hurting anyone who's not me. His judgment only becomes skewed when I'm around."

"Why didn't you kill him?" Caleb asked. "Not that I wish you had or anything. On the contrary, I'm really glad that he's still alive and that he didn't fully…you know… But had it been a man doing that to a woman, I would've killed him. So why didn't you?"

Haytham shook his head and laughed. "He's my son, Caleb. _He's my son._"

Caleb nodded. He didn't need further clarification.

Haytham rested for a bit, fatigue finally knocking him out for a few hours until a sharp knock to the door startled him awake. Caleb answered it and cursed colorfully at the news.

"They found Davey," Caleb closed the door again. "Or rather, they found his body. It looks like he was dragged off, tortured, and interrogated before they killed him. Two more Level 2 Assassins have gone missing in the last hour." The Sharpshooter shrugged on his coat. "Are you up for a little Templar hunting?"

Haytham got up, his joints and back popping like uncooked beans in a pan, and nodded.

* * *

Finding the Templars wasn't difficult with his Eagle Sense. Their trails glowed like a candle-lit path. The hard part was getting to them before more Assassins were murdered.

Caleb had spent the better part of half an hour convincing Duncan Little to allow Haytham to direct his team. Finally, the Master Assassin frowned and gave the Templar a chance. Within the hour, they killed three enemies. Meanwhile Connor directed Clipper Wilkinson's recruits. Though Connor and Haytham happened to pass by each other now and again, they firmly refused to make eye contact and didn't speak a word.

The groups nearly obliterated all of the Templars by sundown, as the snow began falling heavier and the wind was picking up. According to the scouts, there was only one Templar left. But neither Connor nor Haytham could pick up his trail. They tried to focus with all of their might, thinking that maybe fatigue was glossing over the last Templar enemy. But Haytham soon came to realize that it was something else entirely.

A scout, Ace, was the one to finally spot the offending Templar from a rooftop. He gave a magnificent chase, alerting other Assassins as he went. But Haytham was baffled. When he used his Eagle Vision on the Templar, the man didn't glow. He wasn't gold and he wasn't red and he wasn't white. He just…wasn't there. But when Haytham flipped back to his normal vision, he could see the escaping fellow plain as day.

"AFTER HIM!" Connor bellowed, his horse thundering across the cobblestone. The Mentor was clearly frustrated. He couldn't see the fleeing Templar with his Eagle Vision either.

But while Connor and Haytham's horses were faster than chasing on foot, they weren't nimble enough to steer through alleyways and dead ends. They almost feared that they had lost the final Templar when Ace finally returned, his face as white as a sheet.

"Report," Connor ordered. At least some of the swelling in his face had gone down and his words were less garbled.

"He just…he just vanished!" Ace shook his head. "One second I was on him, about to run him through, then the next he was just…gone. There weren't any footprints. He didn't run he just…disappeared."

Connor flashed a worried glance to his Master Assassins. After a few more hours of searching for the elusive Templar, Connor finally ordered that they turn in for the night. A few more scouts were assigned to safe lookouts, but with the night quieter, there wasn't likely to be more Templars.

Connor and Haytham both ended up at the Green Dragon Inn again. This time, Caleb and William conveniently had somewhere else to be at the same time, leaving the father and son alone.

"Father…I…I am sorry," Connor sighed, his hands clasped together nervously as he eyed his bandaged, broken finger. "I did not mean to…I am…I am very sorry…"

Haytham felt disgust twist in his stomach, but he was too tired to fight. It had been a long day and he hadn't gotten a proper sleep yet. "…I don't think I can forgive you," he admitted.

"…I know," Connor's voice was small as he tried to hold back his sob.

Haytham didn't know what else to say. His mind was drained and his body felt like a bag of bricks. But there was still one question burning on his mind. Even though he figured an answer, he wanted to hear it from Connor.

"…Why?"

Connor hung his head low and fidgeted. "Because I am a fool…" he tried. "I know that you will never love me, either as a son or as…or as anything else. But I wanted it. I wanted you to love me like…like you loved Holden."

Haytham's eyes narrowed. "How did you know about that?" His demand was low and threatening, like the growl of a mountain lion.

"Aunt Jenny told me. She said that you and Holden were in love."

Haytham snarled again and rubbed his temples. He wanted to pace around, to lash out and strike his idiot son. But fatigue was stronger than his rage. "You don't _ideserve_ to mention his name! You're not even half the man he was!" Haytham hissed. "Was that what your demented decisions have been based upon? That I don't love you enough!? Idiot! You childish moron! As soon as we began our inappropriate relationship—as soon as we _began_ it!—we have forfeited the right to love each other as family! And what made you think that I could love you otherwise? You _ignored_ every chance I gave you to understand my cause! You _murdered_ all of my friends and almost myself! Then you tried to _rape_ me because I don't 'love you enough'?!"

The Assassin flinched, words having wounded him deeper than any blade. Haytham spit on his cheek, and Connor was too drained to shy away. He only slowly wiped it on the back of his glove. "Then…then kill me, Father. I am an awful person. I am a wretch. Kill me."

"Tch, no! You don't deserve it!" Haytham sneered. "I thought about it, about ending your miserable life, but I refuse to do your dirty work. If-no when I kill you, it's going to be on my terms! Dying is easy. It's giving up on your own pathetic existence while making someone else spill your blood and clean up your mess. If you want to be a halfway decent person, you learn to live with your mistakes. You might never be redeemed, but that's the price you must pay for damnation."

Connor wrung his hands in front of him, his face hidden under his hood.

"…We cannot go back to how we were, can we," he declared more than asked.

Haytham paused and shook his head. "No. We can't be…that. We can't be lovers, Connor."

The Assassin took in a sharp, strangled breath.

"But," Haytham continued, "we still need to work together. The Templars are a threat to both of us. You lost three men today and while I don't care for your lot, I can't condone their needless murder either. These Templars are wrong and we must stop them. We must find the relics and kill their leader."

"…And what about us?" Connor asked.

Haytham sighed. "We're enemies, Connor. We're enemies, and we're family, and we're…we're sleeping together. We've tried to reconcile those facets of our…relationship, but it hasn't worked. It's only ripping us apart."

"Then what do you propose?"

Haytham shook his head. He had been thinking about it since his discussion with Caleb. "We can't afford to be enemies anymore. It destroys our cooperation and makes us weak targets. But we also can't be…'lovers' for lack of a better word. There's too much internal struggle between us for that." He took a deep, shaky breath. "So why don't we try what we should've started out with instead? We'll try to be…to be family. Just father and son. Just a blood relation with no sex and no violence and as little animosity as possible."

"But we cannot be family," Connor sighed. "You have never been the father that I needed and I can never be the son you expect. This plan will fail."

"Maybe…but if it keeps us from killing or fucking each other, then it might be worth a shot."

"Then may I make one request, Father?" Connor struggled to keep his voice even. Guilt was overwhelming the Assassin. "May I kiss you? Just one more time?"

Haytham thought to deny him. He still remembered the feeling of Connor's lips pressed against his collarbone, gnawing and sucking and biting, as he fought for control. Haytham shuddered, and felt his mouth dry. His fingers twitched unconsciously, like an opium addict crazed for his next fix. Haytham closed the gap between them, inhaling the heady scent of his son. It would be so easy to push him down and try to forget their bloodline and the attack. It would be easy to give in and rut against his son until they screamed in ecstasy. It would be so easy…

"One last time."

They kissed.


	18. Chapter 17

_**Crimmy Comments: **Blarghaflargauragh. Pardon the few hour delay for this chapter. Haytham isn't cooperating because he's bored, sexually frustrated, and thinks too goddamn much, thus making him possibly the most uninteresting narrator in existence. My apologies in advance; this should be the last chapter of them sitting around on the Homestead with such minimal action/outside conflict._

* * *

**February 1785**

They never found the strange, disappearing Templar from Boston. After the eventful day, Connor's Assassins had canvassed the territory and surrounding roads thrice before giving up. They were still on alert, but Connor and Haytham headed back to the Homestead, under Duncan Little's persuasion. The two were weary and drained, physically and otherwise.

It had been with a considerable amount of determination and thought that Haytham decided to return to the manor with Connor. Even though he hardly saw the lad after sunset, Haytham still found himself awakening at all times of the night. An owl would hoot, a branch would scrape against the roof, or raccoons would scrabble about outside, and Haytham would awaken, alert and ready to defend himself. But of course, no attack came. Haytham would scoff in the darkness, bitter and angry and frustrated that he was reacting so weakly. What kind of man was he to be afraid of a mere boy? Ah, but Connor was not just little boy; he was a man. He was strong and large and deadly. The Assassin's traits only added fuel to the dangerous lack of self-control.

Haytham could not yet trust him again. It was too soon and his pride was still bleeding. His injury didn't help. Although he was nearly fully healed, with the exception of his aching ribs, his body had weakened. He needed to train, but there was only so much he could do while cooped up in his room.

Connor and Haytham hardly passed a sentence to each other a day. Sometimes, they would even go several days without even seeing the other, much less speaking. Connor would retire early in the evening, while Haytham was still reading in the library or writing in a new journal, and wake first in the morning. They didn't eat meals together. They didn't discuss politics like before. They didn't even share the same fire anymore. It was complete alienation.

And while Haytham did enjoy his solitude, he was quickly running out of books to read and the local shops didn't seem to have any demand for the written word. Even his quill could only keep him company for so long. He often tried to imagine what he would say to Connor should he manage to catch him in the hallway or outside while he was grooming the horses. He thought to be rude or condescending or straightforward or simply polite. But even in the few occasions that he did spend more than a few seconds in Connor's presence, he had been lost for words. Just TALKING to the lad was an impossible mountain to scale, much less actually discussing any of the tension between them.

One afternoon, as Haytham was chopping potatoes for lunch, he heard Connor exit the study and limp towards the kitchen. Though the boy's steps were more even than before, they were still offbeat. It bothered some part of Haytham's mind as he stopped chopping the vegetables and glanced up to the doorway.

Connor's footsteps stopped in the hallway. They hesitated, as if to continue to the kitchen, before turning and retreating to the study again. Haytham sighed, disappointed (though what he was disappointed about remained a mystery).

Haytham was still angry with Connor. He was still insulted and annoyed by him. But despite that, he knew that they needed to work together. The Templar threat still hung heavy over their heads. In order to fight, Haytham needed to build up his strength again. His meager exercises weren't enough to keep his body from rusting. His old bones seemed content to settle down at last, but he couldn't allow it. And Connor's limp, though improved, wasn't gone either. They both needed to train. They both needed to plot. They just needed to…cooperate again.

Haytham was initially content to wait for Connor to pull his head out of his rear and strike up conversation, but the lad was only receding into his shell like a forlorn turtle. Haytham sighed. Connor was the one who screwed up, so why was it up to Haytham to reach out this time? Perhaps Connor didn't want to overstep his boundaries again and was thus keeping as much of a distance between them out of respect AND fear.

He finished fixing his lunch, ensuring to make a bit extra. The extra food went onto a plate for Connor, and he left it on the kitchen table with a short, concise note.

_I prepared too much food. Help yourself. -H _

The day wore on as usual until Haytham returned to the kitchen in the evening to make dinner. On the table was another plate of food and a note from his son.

_Thank you. I also prepared too much food. You are welcome to eat it. -C_

And the next day, the notes continued.

_Is your leg well? –H_

_Yes. How is your shoulder? –C_

_Dr. White claims that it's healed enough for me to rehabilitate it. Fancy sparring? –H_

The next note was blotched out several times before a barely legible _Yes. –C _was scrawled.

_Excellent. Meet me at 3pm. –H_

And that was how Haytham found himself in the hidden basement, waiting for his son and wondering if he was going to be stood up. He contemplated the wall to keep his mind focused on something else. It had been scrubbed at some point, though of what remained unknown. All that he could see was the faint, dusty outline of where a picture frame once hung in the center. His name was written below it, accompanied by his position as Grandmaster and a word that he had no hope of pronouncing.

Finally, Haytham was startled from his thoughts by the hidden door scraping open and footsteps limping down the wooden stairs.

"…Father?" Connor started, hesitant and uncertain as he glanced around as if to see if anything was misplaced. "I did not know that you were aware of this room's location."

Haytham deadpanned at his son and tapped his brow. Eagle Vision had shown him everything he had needed to know ages ago. Hell, he'd been aware of the basement the first week he arrived! But there simply wasn't anything interesting in it. After all, he already checked every nook and cranny very thoroughly.

"Ah…" Connor replied awkwardly. He shifted his weight and averted his gaze about the basement.

"Well…" Haytham clapped his hands behind his back. "Are you going to stand there all afternoon or are you going to fetch the swords?"

Connor frowned, was about to say something and thought better of it. He sighed and poked around the small, but rather dense, armory.

"…What does that word mean?" Haytham asked in the meantime. Although he had searched the books upstairs, none of them contained Mohawk translation notes. It wasn't the first time that Haytham had regretted not humoring William Johnson's offer to teach him the language.

Connor dropped something, cursed quietly, and ventured back to the main sparring circle. "It is nothing important," he lied.

Haytham frowned. He doubted that. Regardless, he took up a sword. The blades weren't live, but they were metal and had seen many training sessions if the scrapes and small nicks and dents in the dull blade were any indication.

"I've heard stories that Assassins like to collect portraits of their slain targets. Is that what your wall was used for?" Haytham asked, motioning to the nearly vacant slab of bricks and rock.

Connor nodded and felt the weight of his sword. "Yes, but I discarded the portraits after our…battle at Fort George," he reluctantly supplied. Without another word, he took his position in the sparring ring and waited for Haytham.

The Templar pondered, bitter still, before facing his son. Connor's face was twisted with uncertainty, but determination. The lad was intent on making things right, but Haytham could see the fear and guilt brimming over the edges. He sighed and took his position.

Within moments, the basement was filled with grunts and the ring of steel against steel. Haytham was thankfully better off than he initially gave himself credit for. Not for the first time, he thanked his ambidextrous hands. Though he was naturally left-handed, he could alternate his blade from one palm to the next on a second's notice. It was fun to keep Connor off balance and distracted, but it was also painfully easy. The boy was preoccupied, his brow drawn deep and his focus scattered to the wind. Haytham took advantage of it. He pressed forward, swiping the dull blade at his son multiple times. If they had live steel, Connor would've been dead thrice over.

Haytham backed off, wiped his forehead on his sleeve, and stood in the sparring circle once more.

"Again," he prompted, waiting for Connor to collect himself. The lad did as he was told and resumed fighting. Even though part of Haytham felt guilty that he was taking the lead, he also was thrilled. His blood pumped in his ears and the fear that had been plaguing him for weeks finally melted away. He may not be a strong or as quick as Connor anymore, but he still had superior swordsmanship and technique. No movement was wasted and no attack was left un-countered. He could do it. He could beat his own son.

Perhaps he got too cocky, he realized as he shoved Connor against a wall, his blade crossed with his son's. He pressed his body close to the Assassin, trapping him against the cold brick, and breathed hot against his ear. It would be easy to bite down and growl at him and grind their crotches together. Haytham could feel the heat of the lad's groin. It was intoxicating and awful.

Connor's breath hitched and he trembled. It took Haytham a moment to realize that it wasn't out of fear. Connor was quietly, almost silently, pleading for Haytham to step back. His dark lips were murmuring and fluttering in self-restraint and he clenched his eyes shut to keep from looking up on his father.

Haytham jerked back with a loud curse.

Shit. Bollocks. He had pushed their boundaries already. Guilt rose like bile in his chest and he swore to himself that it wouldn't happen again. But it did. A sword phrase later and Haytham knocked Connor to the ground and straddled him. He didn't realize how close they were until his lips barely brushed over Connor's. To the lad's credit, he only froze in complete, tightly restrained submission. He didn't reach out to touch Haytham. He didn't say anything obscene. He was a good Assassin and kept his hands to himself and his blade on the defensive. Haytham cursed again, livid with his actions and the urge to touch his son so inappropriately.

Haytham stood, back to his son as he wrenched at his hair with a frustrated noise. What the hell was wrong with him to want Connor after all that had transpired between them? He fought to keep his cock from hardening and to keep his lips from wandering and his hands from groping. Connor's self-control would have been slightly more graceful, if not for the bulge in his trousers that Haytham was trying to ignore. A few more sword phrases later and they had to take a break.

Haytham was tempted to roll around in the snow outside to cool the fire in his veins. It had been weeks since the unfortunate incident that led to their abstention and Haytham's dick didn't seem to care for the break. But his mind, oh lord, his mind screamed at the idea of letting Connor touch him again. Why was he, a man so old, still so sexually active!? While he was proud of his virility, he wasn't pleased with the circumstances, and he could only imagine the blue-balled agony that Connor was suffering.

Bah, Haytham needed to regain his strength quickly. As soon as Connor and he were fit to travel, then they could engage the Templars once more and destroy the relics scattered across the country. Then, Haytham could disappear again. He could fade into the fog, sink into the ether, or whatever other poetic waxing would have him away from his son! Then, he wouldn't have to deal with complicated, troublesome things like _feelings_. All he had to do was make a full recovery. He could do it. He was the former Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite!

The next three months were hell for Haytham and Connor. Although they avoided each other less, their sparring sessions usually ended with a flurry of curses and restrained erections. They made effort to refer to each other as father and son, per Haytham's previous requests, but they still burned with lust. It was wrong and Haytham knew that their trials would ultimately fail, but he needed to try. This was his son. His son! But when they got close, when Haytham could feel Connor's hot breath on his cheek or when he noticed the way Connor's back muscles twitched and tensed, it made him positively groan in agony. The restraint was as difficult as it was necessary.

But still, Haytham's mind nagged, he didn't trust Connor again—not like that. He trusted the boy to not slaughter him in their training. He trusted him enough to conspire against the Templar threat and develop plans for their post-recuperation. But he couldn't trust Connor to touch him—not like before.

As the weather warmed and the meager snow melted (it had been an unusually dry winter), they took their sparring sessions outside. Few Homesteaders investigated the clang of steel swords after the first few weeks—they had known that Connor was an accomplished swordsman, so training with the lad wasn't shocking. In fact, the only shock that Haytham received was that the Homesteaders were slowly warming up to him now that he and Connor weren't brawling and beating the shit out of each other on a regular basis. The sparring was different. Though there were marks made from carelessness or a weak defense, they weren't the savage, deliberate injuries from before. Connor had even gently convinced Haytham to spend some time at the inn during the day.

Oh, it had been terribly unpleasant, what with the regular residents asking him so many questions that his head spun. He only answered some of them, and lied often.

_'What brought you to the New Land? Where've ya been all these years?'_

'_I moved to the Colonies with my father, and after he died, I lived off of his substantial wealth.'_

'_So you fancy yourself a master swordsman?'_

'_Oh no, I only dabble. As a young man, I had many dull and boring days simply lazing about my manor.'_

'_Why did ya abandon Connor?'_

'_Firstly, his mother never told me she was with child when we parted ways. She lived with her tribe and had no way of contacting me after the Redcoats demolished my manor. Secondly, the Mohawk people are matrilineal—the child stays with the mother and inherits her name and lifestyle. Even if I did know of Connor's birth, I still wouldn't have had a place in his life. After she died, Connor had no way of contacting me. It was a series of unfortunate events.'_

'_Are you going to be staying at the Homestead?'_

'_Doubtful. I've imposed so much already that I couldn't possibly continue such a trend.'_

And so on.

Honestly, the people of the Homestead weren't so bad. They were rough around the edges, but they were earthy and honest folks. Haytham could finally understand what Connor saw in them, why the lad strived to protect them so fiercely. Knowing their kindness and generosity only made Haytham want to leave sooner, lest the Templars find the secret base.

Thankfully, they would be able to leave soon. Haytham and Connor were both nearly fully recovered. They would spar, and wrestle, and jog around the coastline. The Assassin even managed to convince Haytham to climb trees with him. Haytham, of course, had balked and complained that he wasn't a monkey, but he ended up scaling the branches anyway. After all, he couldn't back down from such an uppity challenge! Connor had called him an old man!

In the evenings, they would take dinner together and discuss their plans for tackling the Templars. There hadn't been any movement in either Boston or New York in months, but that didn't mean the enemies weren't there. Connor arranged for regular scouting troops and expanded his Brotherhood a little more each day. At this rate, they would be able to leave at the onset of summer.

The only major complication the two experienced was their troublesome, wandering lust. On more than one occasion, Haytham and Connor had dragged the other behind a tree or to the ground or in a haystack with only slightly immoral intentions. But after that, once their bodies were pressed against each other, their breath hot and mingling and too damn distant and their hands maddeningly tentative, blood always rushed south. The two would hesitate, panic, and hobble away from each other whilst willing their erections down. They couldn't touch each other like that. It was part of their agreement.

But of course, Haytham was more than happy to please himself with an oiled hand. At night (PURELY to help himself sleep, of course!), Haytham would slick up his palm and fist himself with satisfied groans. He tried to imagine a lovely lady wrapping her lips—not just the ones on her face—around his cock. But always, inevitably, it was Connor's face and ass that would swim back into his mind's eye. It was always fantasies of Connor's tight hole, or warm wet mouth, or calloused fingertips that Haytham came to.

While Haytham was still undoubtedly bothered by his attraction to his son, he was somewhat pleased as well that the feeling was mutual. Sometimes, as he was re-reading a few books or writing in his journal, he could hear faint sounds that could almost be mistaken for the wind or the manor settling like an old grave. But it was Connor. Connor would be in his room downstairs, moaning his father's name as he undoubtedly pleased himself. And of course, not one to waste an opportunity, Haytham would fish himself out of his trousers and join in. He was always surprised by the immediate, needy arousal as he tugged at the eager flesh, and he was equally surprised that he kept his son's name from falling off his lips as his hips stuttered and jerked into his fist. But even as Haytham came down from his high, he was always terribly disappointed. He couldn't feel satisfied.

The sexual tension was getting worse.

It was more and more difficult to keep their hands off of each other, and Connor, though still determined to keep his word, was faltering. Haytham knew that the lad wanted to touch and take and give and receive, but he wouldn't allow it. They were supposed to be family now! Damn it all!

On the last day of April, Connor went on a hunting trip. He claimed that he needed to prepare a new shipment of furs to send to Europe, but Haytham knew that the lad was trying to put some space between them. That was fine. It was even for the best. Without Connor hanging about and setting his libido aflame, Haytham could concentrate on other, much more practical and innocent things.

It had been an offhand proposal, something that Haytham had immediately regretted as soon as the words fell from his mouth. Warren and Prudence had asked Haytham to teach their son how to read. And of course, teaching one child meant that the others would sneak away from their duties to learn as well. Before long, Haytham had a small class of children that he read to on a daily basis. He taught letters and words, somewhat grudgingly and always reluctantly. They primarily wrote with sticks in the dirt, but sometimes, on a special occasion, Haytham would order paper from Boston and teach them how to use a quill. While Haytham liked to think that he didn't have the patience for children, he couldn't find the will to snap at them when they made errors or to roll his eyes when they asked questions. Was this what teaching a child was like? Something that made his chest swell with a happy warmth and contentment that bloodshed had never offered?

Connor said that his efforts were endearing. Haytham scoffed and told him to sod off.

But since Connor was on his hunting trip, Haytham could focus on the children. He knew that he was a poor teacher, but he still enjoyed himself and the boys and girls didn't seem to care. He even taught them the basics of defending themselves with a sword (or rather sticks with a sword-like appeal). The kids had fun.

When Connor returned home, it was with a large pile of pelts loaded onto his horse. The children's lesson was interrupted as he tried to sneak by. Many of the children sprang up and gave chase to greet the Native. Connor stopped, smiled, and answered all of the questions that were thrown at him. Haytham didn't miss the glimmer of regret and longing and envy in his son's eyes. He couldn't blame him. Haytham had never been there as a father, and now Connor already knew everything that Haytham had to teach.

Well, almost everything. Many things Connor didn't know wasn't Haytham's responsibility to teach—not anymore.

Once the hubbub died down, Haytham finished the children's lesson and ventured within the manor. Connor had already unpacked and was settling down for lunch.

"Was your trip really so fantastical?" Haytham inquired with a raised eyebrow. Nightly wolf attacks weren't unheard of, but Connor always did seem to meet a lot of angry canines in the Frontier. Connor nodded and continued eating.

"Yes, since the winter and spring have been so dry and the settlers have spoiled the game, wolf attacks are becoming more troublesome," Connor sighed.

Haytham denied the urge to pick a fight. They had been getting along so well, with only minimal bickering.

"Has there been any more movement?" Haytham asked instead. He was itching to get out of the Homestead, despite the relaxing atmosphere.

Connor frowned and took a drink of water.

"Along the trail leading here, just outside of town, there have been rumors of a restless spirit. The Frontiersmen often embellish even the simplest occurrences, but this time…" Connor frowned.

"Are the sightings similar to what we witnessed in Boston?"

Connor nodded. "Yes. When I investigated, the same thing happened. There was a man with a hat pulled low over his head and a Templar cross around his neck. At first, I thought that I could not see his face because his hat obscured it, but I was wrong. He did not have a face, or at least not one I have ever seen. It was blurry and smooth, as if looking at someone through a window pane on a rainy day. Then, he vanished. There were no footprints. My Eagle Vision and Sense could not locate him. He just…vanished."

Haytham crossed his arms over his chest with a curse. Although the story was preposterous, he didn't know what else to believe. Perhaps Connor had just been sleepy and hadn't gotten a good look? Perhaps it had been a dream? Or maybe the lad was telling the truth and that literally was all of the intel he could gather.

"You're certain that you weren't followed back here?"

Connor nodded.

"They're getting closer," Haytham supplied, regardless of what the man's face looked like. Connor grunted in agreement.

"We must lead them away from the Homestead, father."

* * *

**April 13 1785**

The preparations were finally complete. Connor had managed to send out multiple convoys. Some were legitimate and filled with goods, and others were naught but empty boxes. All convoys were headed by multiple Assassins recommended by Connor's immediate recruits. They had taken care to let false information seemingly slip. Rumors were spread that Connor and Haytham were on specific wagons in the Frontier. The Aquila was scheduled to leave for Europe. All of the papers were ready and properly falsified.

But while the land convoys were thoroughly chalked up to be the true route of the fugitives, it was a farce. They could only hope to lure out the newly dubbed Neo-Templars. Meanwhile, Haytham and Connor would sail the Aquila to Georgia. They already sent Stephane a coded letter, warning him of the threat and of their anticipated arrival.

Many new Assassin recruits partnered with the local Thieves' Guild and flowed discreetly into the Homestead. They watched the roads in secret, taking great care not to call any attention to their ploy. Even Duncan and Dobby joined them at the Homestead for final preparations.

"Everyone is in position, Master Little, and all is quiet," William de Saint-Prix worked closely with Duncan. Connor knew that Caleb was head of the road defense team as well. While having another Master Assassin and the only Level 5 Assassin missing from Boston was dangerous, they were willing to take their chances. Duncan had assured Connor that Boston had been quiet since that fateful day in January. They could only hope it was because the Templars couldn't get the information that they needed.

Altogether, the plans were going well. Connor had given Robert Faulkner his orders to prepare for the coming voyage. They were due to set sail within a few days. Duncan and Dobby headed down to The Mile's End tavern for a well-earned night of rest and sleep.

"I still dun like 'ye an' I dun think I ever will, but the Lord says to forgive others as 'e forgave us," Duncan held out his hand to shake Haytham's.

The Templar raised an eyebrow and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Connor told me that I killed your uncle at the Royal Opera House decades ago. Why would you forgive that?"

Duncan laughed a little sadly and shook his head. "If God does not with'old 'is forgiveness from me, then why should I with'old it from another? Uncle Miko is with the Lord now, or whatever 'e may 'ave believed in. While I do miss 'im, I cannae be upset anymore. H'is soul needs to rest now an' 'e can' do that if I'm holdin' onto him.

"Asides, ye' gotta take care of Connor now. We cannae go with you, so yer're in each other's h'ands."

Haytham fought to maintain his composure. Connor could see it. He was severely rattled, but he couldn't tell why.

The Templar's lips thinned into a bloodless line and he finally unclasped his hands from behind his back. He stretched it out to Duncan's, his demeanor calm and measured on the surface, and shook the Master Assassin's hand.

Duncan didn't quite smile, but he did nod to the Templar before parting ways.

Haytham turned on his heel and briskly walked back to the manor. He didn't bother to complete any farewells.

Connor nodded to Dobby as well. The two flashed shy, awkward smiles to each other.

"So…I guess it's going to be awhile until you come back again, hm?" she said.

Connor nodded. "Most likely. Do you think that you will find a husband while I am gone?"

She shrugged and pulled her hood over her head. "Doubtful, but I'll keep an eye out for some nice young lasses for you. You don't want to end up grumpy and alone like your father."

Connor smiled a little sadly, but nodded. The two said their farewells and Connor headed back up to the manor.

Haytham was nowhere in sight—the Templar was probably hiding in his room for whatever reason. Although Connor worried, it wasn't enough for him to want to pursue his enigmatic father. Besides, he didn't like venturing upstairs any more than necessary. It made both of their nerves stand on edge still.

Instead, he sat in his study, mindful of the cat that had snuck in and was sleeping on his favorite chair. He scooped the feline up and scratched behind its ear. The cat, Boots as he was named, gave a sleepy trill and lifted his nose to the hand petting him. Connor mulled over the paperwork on his desk again, checking for the umpteenth time that everything was in order. After several minutes, he heard something.

It was faint, like a small pebble against glass.

_-Tap! Tap! Taptap!-_

Connor looked around and saw nothing. Then, he heard it again.

_-Tap! Taptap!-_

This time, Boots hopped down from his lap and cautiously approached the window. The feline's posture was low and frightened and his ears were flat against his head. His pupils were blown wide in fear and Connor could swear that the cat's tail was trembling just a little.

_-Tap Taptap! Tap!-_

Boots hissed, his back arching and his tail fluffing, and ran out of the room.

Connor used his Eagle Vision on the window. There was no one outside. There was no one and nothing there. He frowned and approached it, even going so far as to open the sliding pane.

A marble rolled into the room.

It was small and black and unassuming, but it rolled across the floor and stopped by Connor's boots. There it paused and seemed to throb.

He didn't know what possessed him to pick it up, but he did. Immediately, he recoiled and dropped it. The marble was warm and _pulsing_ as if it were alive. He picked it up again and examined it. The thing was black with small, almost imperceptible etchings carved on the surface. He could feel the marble moving ever so slightly against his fingers, as if it was conscious and vaguely trying to escape.

He could feel a faint heartbeat.

The beats were slow enough at first, but they quickly picked up speed. He nearly pressed the marble to his face in concentration. Before he knew it, Haytham was behind him, whirling him around by the shoulder, his icy gray eyes wild with disbelief and something like terror.

Haytham slapped Connor's hand, making him drop the marble.

The heartbeats stopped.

Connor shook his head, bewildered.

"Where did you get that!?" Haytham hissed.

"It was outside the window," Connor answered lamely.

Haytham kicked the marble aside with the toe of his boot, eyeing it as if it was a bomb.

"Don't touch it!" he demanded, his face whiter than a sheet and his eyes practically bulging. Connor could smell the fear and part of him understood that the heartbeats had been his father's.

"What?" Connor's brows drew together in confusion. Haytham was afraid of the marble as if he knew what it was. "What is it?" he asked.

Haytham shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing that you need worry about," the Templar shakily withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and picked up the marble with it. He tied the handkerchief around it tightly. Connor could swear that he saw the thing inside move.

"Then why are you worried?" Connor was unconvinced. "What is that?! What did it do!?"

"It doesn't matter!" the Templar snapped. He took a moment to calm himself and stuffed the marble in his pocket. "You have the amulet here, don't you?"

Connor nodded slowly. "It is not in the manor, but I have it," he admitted. How had Haytham guessed that? It never came up in conversation before! Connor counted to ten slowly, and in several languages. It wouldn't do either one of them any good if he lost his temper now.

Haytham cursed and Connor didn't see the connection.

"How long has it been here?"

"Only for a few minutes."

That bit of news seemed to quell Haytham's anxiety minutely. He let out a breath of relief and scrubbed a hand through his ponytail.

"Then we should be fine. We just need to keep an eye on it until we set sail. Then, we'll throw it in the ocean," Haytham said.

"Tell me what it is, father! I have a right to know!" Connor demanded.

Haytham rounded on him. "Not until we are a safe distance away!" he bit and rubbed his temples again. "I will tell you what it is, Connor, but not yet. Later. In two days' time."

"…Is it dangerous?" Connor asked. If it was a threat, then they might not have two days.

Haytham frowned. "Potentially—but only if we let it slip out of our sights. Whatever happens, do not unite it with the Amulet."

"It is a Piece of Eden," Connor concluded.

Haytham barked a harsh laugh. He suddenly looked old. "Yes. And it started this whole damn mess."


	19. Chapter 18

**Crimmy Comments:** Get ready for something trippy.

* * *

The next day, Haytham was clearly on edge. His shoulders were tense and his attention lingered elsewhere. Connor gave up trying to ask what was wrong. Either Haytham would snap at him or else pretend like he was listening the entire time. While Connor liked to think that his father was so preoccupied because of the impending mission, he knew that wasn't the problem. Ever since Connor found that strange marble, Haytham had been acting odd and nervous. It must have been the marble.

But what was it and what was its connection to the amulet?

He tried to ask Haytham again, but the Templar only scowled and denied him. What was his father hiding now? Connor was irritated. Although he knew that the trust between them was still shaky, he was trying to bridge the fissure. He didn't touch Haytham inappropriately, he called him father as requested, and he respected his space and attitude as much as he morally could. Hadn't he at least earned the trust to know more about the relics? Haytham was going to lead the way to each Piece of Eden and they were going to destroy them, hopefully before the Neo Templars attacked. It would at least be beneficial to know just what kind of item Connor was going to destroy.

Alas, Haytham only told him to wait. Frankly, Connor didn't want to.

So while Haytham had gone to buy a few more vegetables from Prudence, Connor decided to search for the strange ball. Hopefully, Haytham didn't keep it in his pocket and it was hidden in the manor.

Connor climbed the stairs easier than he had in a long time, and paused outside of Haytham's room with a frown. This was trespassing. This was betraying Haytham's trust again. But he hadn't entered the room in months! This was his home, his manor, and that had been his bedroom! Just because Haytham was staying in it didn't mean that Connor should just relinquish it entirely. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

It was the same. It was still the same as when he had last set foot in the room, but it felt oddly foreign. The bed was made and tidy. The dresser top was neat. The beadworks and trinkets on the walls were well dusted. It looked the same as when Connor had slept in it last, save for the smell. It smelled like Haytham. Although his father didn't wear cologne anymore (life on the lamb provided few comforts), he still smelled inexplicably musky and pleasant and _Haytham_. Connor walked to the bed and stroked the pillow with tentative fingers. He shouldn't be in here, not without permission.

Connor leaned over and buried his nose the pillowcase. His stomach tightened and his knees trembled just slightly. He missed his father's scent.

There was a noise just outside of the open window. Connor started and all but jumped away from the bed, terrified that his father had caught him sniffing the sheets like some pervert. But only a squirrel glanced sideways at him from a nearby branch. It munched on something innocently and Connor sighed with relief.

It was a squirrel. Just a squirrel.

He willed his breath to calm and for his heart to stop hammering. He came in here for a reason. He had a purpose.

Connor searched the dresser across from the bed. One of the drawers was slightly open, as if Haytham just had forgotten to close it completely. Inside was almost barren save for a shaving kit and an extra hair tie. Ah, but there it was! A small, leather coin pouch was shoved into the back corner. The edge of his father's handkerchief stuck out of the top.

Connor picked the thing up carefully, frowning. It was light—too light. Though the marble had been small, it had weight like lead. He was about to untie the knotted leather lace when he noticed something. There was a hole in the bag. It looked like something had pressed against the leather hard enough to actually puncture a hole, from the inside out. Connor's brow furrowed. Though he couldn't imagine an inanimate object taking a life of its own and fleeing a small pouch, he couldn't think of anything else. The hole was just big enough for a marble to pass through.

Connor checked the pouch and handkerchief just to confirm his suspicions. The marble was gone. Something was wrong. He used his Eagle Sense upon instinct and tried to focus on its trail. Normally, his second sight worked best on living things, but it picked up the marble's trail with ease. Connor's heart caught in his chest. The trail came from the dresser and over to the open window. He ran outside to pick up the trail. The blood in his veins felt like ice.

The trail led to the graves.

He followed it carefully, cautiously, as if he were tracking a target. What was the marble? It had broken out of the manor and had gone to the grave of Achilles' son! It was seeking out the hidden amulet! But how could it move on its own? That was impossible!

Although the graves were covered in grass and a few flowers, Connor could see the small dirt trail that the marble took. He stooped and parted the grass. There was a hole in the ground. Connor's breath hitched. The hole was fresh, as if something small had drilled into the dirt just moments ago, but large enough that a marble might have made it. He reached out to it. His hand was shaking.

Connor dug. Haytham had insisted that the marble and amulet remain apart! He had implied that something dreadful would happen should they reunite! Connor needed to separate the two pieces and warn Haytham what had happened!

A foot or so down, Connor's hand touched something warm and hard, like the sides of cup filled with fresh tea. He withdrew his hand with a gasp. Nothing buried so deep should be so warm! There was a sound, like a coin spinning on a tabletop, like metal grinding to life. He held his breath as he reached down again and pulled forth the amulet and core.

The small black orb was alight. The etchings on it glowed a brilliant blue and the amulet ring tried to rotate around it freely in all directions. It stuttered in Connor's hand. It was warm and the eyes on the snake were glowing. Connor could feel it pulse. He could hear the heartbeat. Somehow, he understood that the thing was Precursor-made, but alive.

He blinked his eyes and held the amulet close to his face. The orb was spinning faster and faster, picking up speed as it hung, suspended, in the center of the amulet. Connor blinked again.

Everything went white.

Connor was falling! It felt like he was spinning through the air as the marble was in the center of the amulet. He couldn't see. Everything was white, painful, searing as if he were looking upon the sun. He tried to shout, but his vocal cords didn't seem to work. He tried to look at his hands only to find that there were none there. He didn't have a body.

Yet even as his mind tried to rationalize that thought, he prayed for the ground, hoped that something would finally stop the falling sensation. His prayer was answered and he felt himself (his consciousness, perhaps?) hit solid ground. But without a body, he could only exist and try to comprehend what had happened.

The small black orb had reunited with the amulet. He had touched them. And now, this place…it was familiar in a way. It was all white, similar to the expanse of his occasional dreams or the strange hallucinations he experienced after assassinating a target. Achilles had always told him it was a byproduct of his blood-line, similar to his Eagle Vision. But he wasn't sharing a target's last words and this time, he wasn't on the outside, looking upon himself as if through another's eyes. He was himself, though without a body. And if he didn't have a body, how was he supposed to move?

Perhaps the environment had heard him. Perhaps he willed it. But no sooner than he had such a thought did a hand start materializing. It was his hand, he knew it. The skeleton formed before his eyes and blood vessels and nerves wrapped around them like vines. Muscles formed, the vessels pumped with fresh blood, and skin stretched across the framework. His nails grew before his eyes, his palms thickened with callouses, and finally, a glove was stitched over his hand. He wiggled his fingers experimentally. Yes, this was his hand. He had a body now, one that functioned and was somehow dressed in his Assassin robes. Strange. He hadn't been wearing his robes before touching the amulet.

Connor picked himself off of the plane he liked to think of as the ground. It was transparent and led into nothingness. In the past, when he had shared a target's final moments in this place, it had been different. There had been strange lines and glowing things and a sense of endlessness that he couldn't grasp. This was different in a way. The vastness was the same, but it seemed…terminable. There was an end, he just couldn't see it. And if he squinted his eyes hard enough, teal light sparked through the air like lines in a book, written in a foreign language he didn't know.

But what was this place? Had he hit his head and was dreaming? It had to be a dream.

There was a heartbeat.

He swallowed the lump of dread in his throat. Was the heartbeat Haytham's, his own, or the relic's? He tried to ask aloud, to see if anything would answer. This time, nothing did. He was alone. So with little else to do, he followed the sound.

Connor walked. He didn't know how far it was or how much time had passed. He just walked towards the heartbeat until he came to a strange figure looming in the distance.

"Hey!" he yelled to it. "Do not move! I am coming towards you! I need to find a way out!"

Although running didn't close the distance any quicker than walking, Connor still sprinted towards the person. He finally arrived at the figure, his breath unusually quick.

It was a boy.

The boy was white, 14 or 15 years old, and perhaps English by the look of his clothes. He must have come from a wealthy family. His small waistcoat was pressed and his undershirt was immaculate. His hair was pulled into a tidy ponytail and tied off with a red leather lace. Even the buckles on his shoes were shiny and clean. But the boy's face was stoic. He looked, for all rights and purposes, dead.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Connor asked. He wanted to approach the child, but something was wrong. There was an invisible line delineating his side of the white and the child's. If he passed that point, he knew within his heart that there would be no return. He didn't want to move forward, not without knowing the consequences.

The boy didn't answer. Connor tried again. This time, the boy raised his hand. His nails were short and well maintained, but Connor could see the makings of callouses on his palm. Were they from sword training?

"Who are you!? Do you need help?" Connor tried again. The boy didn't say anything. He only stared at Connor, his hand raised innocently, as if asking for the Assassin to join him on his side of the invisible wall. Connor shook his head.

"Who are you!" he tried one last time. This time, although no words were spoken, Connor understood. The name appeared in his head as if something bodiless had whispered it directly into his brain.

_Haytham._

That was Haytham. But how could it have been his father? Haytham was back on the Homestead! He wasn't trapped in some white nothingness!

"Stop this!" Connor growled. "I need to get out of here! Are you trapped? We can escape together."

The boy didn't respond. Instead, he changed. Connor watched, rooted in horror as the not-Haytham's face shifted into another. His skin darkened and his clothes shredded into nothingness and renewed as a small, leather loincloth. The child was still there, but he was a young fisher boy. Judging by his clothes and the shape of his face, the boy was Mohawk child rather than English. He held a tangled fishing net in one of his hands. Dead fish, in various states of decomposition, rotten within. He lifted his other hand to Connor again. A silver and gold two-headed serpent crawled out of his eye socket, making the lifeless eyeball bulge, before wrapping around and disappearing into the boy's ear.

This time, Connor tried to step back. He could see the boy's face changing again. The features all overlapped, as if multiple people were underwater, staring up at the sky at once.

The boy's hand reached out for Connor.

He didn't know why he did it. His mind was reeling, trying to understand why there were so many faces and where he was standing and what this child was, but something urged him to take the boy's hand. Connor reached out.

The hand was small and lithe. Then it was bony, with strips of flesh hanging from black, spongy muscle. Then it was white and feminine with dainty rings. It kept changing and changing as Connor's hand inched towards it. His eyes burned. His head felt as if it was splitting.

_Yes, just give in. Just reach out and give the amulet what it wants._

Connor's shaking fingers were a hair's bread away. They almost touched, just another millimeter, just another bit.

"NO!"

Someone snatched Connor by his robes. His hand flailed, missing the boy's, as he stumbled backwards.

Connor whirled on his heel upon instinct and struck out at the stranger. His fist went through air and he fought to maintain his balance.

"Don't touch that thing! It's not Haytham! It's not a human!" The voice had moved. It was by his side. It was familiar and there was weight to it, as if it also had a body.

Connor's breath caught in his chest as he looked upon the man who saved him. Impossible. It was impossible.

"Charles Lee," Connor breathed, incredulous.

"We don't have much time," Charles snapped as he led Connor away from the child with vacant eyes. His body seemed solid, yet vaporous. It wavered in front of Connor's vision, as if it was a mirage brought on by a hot day and dehydration. He shouldn't trust this man, hallucination or not. He had dedicated his life to killing Charles Lee. He had slain the man, perhaps too late to save what could have been. Connor had taken everything and Lee was not known for his forgiveness and understanding. Yet despite that, his instinct told him that he could trust this Charles, whatever he may be.

"What is happening?! Where are we!? How are you alive?" Connor asked. The heartbeat in the background was getting louder and faster.

"If you're here, then either you or that mad, traitorous bastard has killed me. He wants the amulet and the journal, but I won't let him have them," Charles said as he kept moving. "But that also means that Haytham is still alive. You're seeking the Pieces of Eden, are you not?"

"How did you know that?"

"It doesn't matter! There will be time for explanation later!" Charles waved his hand dismissively over his shoulder. "The amulet has two pieces; the ring and the core. The ring is a key, but you've already figured that out. It unlocks more than that damn door at the Precursor site! It unlocks the Sacred Temple! It unlocks the core, the black marble. The marble is like an endless library—it's filled with more information than a man can sit through in a lifetime. But learning has a price. You must give in order to receive, and the relic is ravenous."

"You speak nonsense!" Connor jogged to keep up the pace. Even though Charles was walking, he flickered in and out of his vision, often several steps ahead.

"I can't hear you. I can't see you. But the amulet has copied this piece of me into its core, yet I stand outside of the invisible wall," Charles finally stopped and turned on his heel. His face was set in a scowl, one bitter with resentment and barely contained rage. Even without words, Connor could feel Charles' emotions as if they were his own. Charles hated him. It wasn't his skin color or even the Creed that he hated—it was what he took. And yet there was something beneath the hatred that tasted like desperation. Somehow, Connor knew that he was Charles' only hope.

"We're out of time. Go."

Connor was about to ask the questions burning on the tip of his tongue, even if Lee couldn't see or hear him. But instead, something else seared across his brain like a hot iron. It was a location written in numbers and letters; it was a vision of a place he had never seen; it was a safe route and the beginning of salvation.

The heartbeats were frantic.

Connor opened his eyes.

Haytham wrenched the two pieces of the amulet apart and, with a great shout, threw the black core as far as he could muster.

Connor collapsed. His eyes were watering and his nose was running and his head felt like it was on fire. His jaw ached, as if he had been clenching and grinding his teeth, and his eyes were hot and dry. His stomach clenched and he gagged and heaved his lunch onto the grass.

But it was grass! He was back on the Homestead!

"You idiot! You blind, stupid, fool!" Haytham cursed above him, his voice high with fear. "I told you not to unite the pieces of the amulet! I **TOLD** you!"

Connor retched again in response. It felt like his innards had been wrung and hung to dry. His head was pounding and his ears were ringing. Haytham was still yelling at him.

But what had that place been? It hurt to think about it, it hurt to remember Charles' bitter expression and furious hatred. It hurt to remember the visions of the young boys—the Not-Haytham and the Mohawk with dead fish. Connor sucked in a breath, trying to sort his thoughts.

"I did not…I did not do it…Just picked it up…It got out, somehow, it got out," Connor managed to gasp. He wiped his mouth and face on his sleeve.

"Goddammit, then you should've told me! You should've never touched that damn thing!" Haytham all but screamed. His throat was raw and his chest shook for the breath he couldn't seem to get. The Templar's forehead was drawn and furrowed as stray silver hair clung to his sweaty face. Haytham had been running. Connor looked around a little. A nearly empty basket lay on the ground, vegetables scattered about. Otherwise, everything was normal. The birds chirped and the sun was warm. Nothing was amiss save for the two panicked men standing atop a grave.

Connor mentally apologized for defiling the site, and tried to stand. His legs were too weak, but Haytham wrapped his arm around him and helped hoist him up.

"Idiot, blatant, bumbling idiot!" he hissed under his breath.

"You should have told me what it was! You should have told me it was cursed!" Connor rasped. He wrenched his eyes shut, but the vision of a small house wouldn't leave his mind. The Charles in the amulet wanted him to find that place. He wanted Connor and Haytham to go there for some reason—a reason that was very important, but had yet to come to light.

"Shit!" Haytham snarled again as he half-carried Connor to the manor. "We need to move. Pack your bags—leave anything unnecessary behind. We'll take the horses down to the docks and set sail immediately."

"Why?" Connor's mind was still swimming.

"That amulet! When it activates, when both of the pieces are together, it acts as a beacon to other Artifacts. Anyone who wields a relic will have felt that pulse."

Hell. Connor cussed quietly. Haytham and he had speculated the consequences of the Neo Templars possessing a relic. It was the only explanation for the strange, wandering ghost-spy. But that had been something to tackle once they fled the Homestead! Now, they may have just given away their secret location.

"No, we cannot flee," Connor pulled away from Haytham. "If the Neo Templars will attack, then I must stand with my Brothers to defend the Homestead. I cannot allow innocent people to be caught up in our war."

Haytham looked like he was about to argue, but just thinned his lips and nodded. He slipped the amulet into his pocket and dashed towards the stables. "I'll tell your Assassins in the inn to start mobilizing and evacuating civilians! You go to the docks and rally up that boat of yours!"

Connor thought to argue that it wasn't a boat, but he didn't have time for bickering. If he could warn Robert Faulkner about the threat, then the Aquila could at least defend the Homestead from the coast. Even though it didn't yet have a full crew, it could sail and fight.

They didn't bother saddling the horses as they rode in opposite directions. Connor fought the fuzziness in his head as he rode at breakneck speed. What if the Templars were already moving in? No, that was impossible. There was no way that they could've gotten so close already without anyone noticing. There had been no signals from his Assassins along the roads and his crew along the coast would've notified him if unknown ships were approaching.

At least, that's what Connor told himself.

As he neared the bay, he looked out over the water. The Aquila was moored and sailors milled about. But something was wrong.

The water wasn't moving correctly.

Connor looked out at the horizon and screwed up his eyes. It was fine. There was nothing there, nothing to be suspicious of. But the water…

He could see Robert Faulkner on the deck of the Aquila, looking through a spyglass over the open sea. He had obviously noticed as well.

Fear choked in Connor's throat. He used his Eagle Vision.

Three ships, all bright red, sailed towards the bay, headed by a Man-of-War that was flanked by two gunboats. It was already within firing distance. But no one could see them with their eyes—no one but Connor.

"ABANDON SHIP!" Connor screamed from the cliff, hoping against vain hope that someone would hear him. But no one did. Faulkner kept his spyglass steadied on the spot he thought trouble could be, but still he could see nothing.

Connor roared, spooking his horse a little, and sped down the coast.

They were under attack! They were under attack and there was nothing he could do to warn them!

The Man-of-War fired.

The hull of the Aquila cracked and splintered. Men screamed. A few fell overboard. Robert Faulkner began shouting orders, calling for the sails to be loosed and the anchor to be lifted. The illusion over the enemy ships finally fell, revealing their Neo Templar flags and their full armament.

Connor's pulse thundered in his ears. The Man-o-war fired again, and more chunks of the Aquila blew off. The other ships fired chain shots that massacred the Aquila's sails and main mast. It was a sitting duck! He needed to do something.

Faulkner finally steered the ship around and headed for the enemy with meager momentum. A few swivel guns on deck were loaded and fired by the Clutterbuck lads. Their aim was impeccable as always, and the two gunboats fell. But the Aquila was already taking on water, despite the reinforced hull. It wouldn't survive the battle.

Connor leapt from his horse as soon as he hit the docks. He made to dive off, but a sailor from behind grabbed him by the arm.

"RELEASE ME!" Connor roared, wheeling around to hit the man. The fellow landed on the ground hard, but another sailor behind him sprang forward, sorrow and determination etched on his features.

"No can do, Captain! It's suicide to go into the water now!" the sailor insisted.

"I AM THE CAPTAIN!" Connor bellowed. "You follow my orders and I order you to stand down and evacuate!"

The fellow shook his head sadly. "Then consider this a coup, Captain. The Aquila's going down and we're not going to lose you, too."

Connor roared just as another shot fired from the Man-of-War. He wheeled around in time to see the Clutterbucks fly overboard in a spray of red mist and short screams. The hull cracked near the powder store. He could see the barrels.

Connor screamed for them. He ran down the nearest dock, yelling and crying out for Faulkner and what remained of the crew to abandon ship. The two sailors held him back, kept him from diving into the water. They wrestled him mercilessly.

"MISTER FAULKNER! ABANDON SHIP! ABANDON SHIP!" he shrieked.

With his impeccable vision, he saw Faulkner finally turn to him. The old man's eyes couldn't see him, not from this distance, not with the blood dripping his brow, but he smiled.

Connor watched in horror as Faulkner rammed the Aquila into the Man-of-War. The exposed barrels of gunpowder sparked.

The Aquila exploded, taking the Man-of-War with it.


	20. Chapter 19

**Crimmy Comments:** You guys are gonna hate me for this chapter...

**Edit:** Oh! Also guys, be sure to check out my companion fic, He Who Makes a Beast Out of Himself! It's primarily porn, but the last two chapters give a little more insight on what the Pieces of Eden are in Thicker Than Water! Just a head's up for anyone who hasn't been following those updates, too!

* * *

Connor didn't know if water was dripping down his face or tears.

His ears were ringing from the blast and his body felt numb.

"Mister Faulkner?" his voice was so distant and quiet to his muffled ears.

The Man-of-war was still moving, sluggish and tepid. One of the watchtowers along the inlet fired cannons at it. The thing limped, dazed, away from wrecked Aquila. A tattered sail clung to the splintered hull of the Man-of-war and Connor had the notion that it looked as if the Templars were dragging the Aquila's entrails out to sea.

More cannons fired. The Man-of-war tried to focus its cannons on the watchtower, like a man with a cataract-white eye. The watchtower crew was relentless. The Man-of-war took on more water and began sinking faster. The crew abandoned ship and Connor met them on shore with blades and pistols and a fire in his heart.

Allies from the watchtower were comprised primarily of sailors and Assassin recruits. Some of them began flowing downhill to aid in the shoreline battle. It was unfortunately short and bloody, with too many casualties. After the remaining Templars either surrendered or died, Connor turned his attention back to the wrecked Aquila.

The water was red and black with blood and gunpowder. Connor hoped that Faulkner and others had survived. But he had the dim realization that he was surrounded by more death than he wanted to admit. The Clutterbucks were gone; there was no way they had survived the cannon onslaught. Robert Faulkner was gone. It felt as if he were dreaming. He could remember their last voyage clearly—the sea salt against his skin and the bellows of his men singing wild songs as they went about their duties. He could feel the gentle rock of the water beneath his ship, like a babe in a crib.

But his crew was in shambles. So many were dead, either drowned or grievously injured in the explosion. They would sing no more. The Aquila was a flaming carcass in the water, and a final tomb for so many of the good men who served aboard her.

Connor couldn't find Robert Faulkner's remains. He sobbed as he thought of his dear friend, the man who had taught him all about the sea and believed so earnestly in him. But if Faulkner hadn't come up for air yet, cursing and sputtering, then he wouldn't. He was dead.

Connor managed one final salute to the water, his brow scrunched and his chest tight, and let the tides take the Aquila's remains.

It had to be a dream—no, a nightmare. But nightmares weren't this vivid. He knew it was real. But how had the Templars managed such a feat? If they had the ability to cloak an entire Man-of-war and two gunboats, then what else were they capable of? Connor felt terror climb up his spine. He remembered the white place and the strange not-Haytham and not-Charles. But Charles had been right. They were out of time.

Connor looked up the cliff and spotted smoke on the horizon.

The Homestead was still under attack.

* * *

**Earlier**

William de Saint-Prix was honored to work so closely to two Master Assassins. He had been inducted into the Brotherhood by Duncan two years ago and had been quick to rise in the ranks. William was a Level 5 Assassin—he was only one step from becoming a Master. But even so, he couldn't help the awe he felt in the presence of Duncan Little and Dobby Carter. He was as eager to prove himself to them as he had been to prove his skills to Connor, the Mentor, all those months ago.

Together, in a room at the Mile's End Inn, the three Assassins pored over a few alternate trade routes for future use. Connor didn't know how long he would be gone and he had tasked his Master Assassins with keeping the Homestead maintained. Although Connor had already planned several steps ahead of them, the Assassins tried to figure out other ways to expand their influence and maintain peace throughout the Colonies.

While reviewing a particularly intricate map, they heard someone enter the tavern roughly. The fellow didn't bother to hide his noise as he ignored Corrine's innocent inquiry, took the stairs two at a time, and flung open the door with nary a knock.

Duncan was already prepared. He greeted Haytham Kenway with a blade to his throat, thoroughly stopping him in his tracks.

"Wha' in blazes are ye doin'?" Duncan demanded, suspicious and incredulous.

Although William would be hard pressed to say that Haytham looked a mess, he was clearly not as proper as usual. There was an anxiety twitching behind his eyes despite the forcefully calm demeanor. He looked as though he were thinking of disarming Duncan, but clearly thought better of it considering the company.

"We need to leave. Enact the alternate battle formations and begin defensive maneuvers," Haytham said.

"Why'd we do tha't?" Duncan asked.

"Connor activated the relic. If there's any Piece of Eden nearby, it will react and notify them of our location. We must draw them away before they attack."

Duncan finally let down his blade and rubbed his chin in thought. "Activated the relic? That donnae make sense. And we donnae take orders from ye, 'Aytham. Where's Connor?"

Haytham rolled his eyes as if they should already know what he was talking about. "He went down to the docks to send out the Aquila! We need to secure the coast!"

Dobby stepped forward. "How do we know you're not setting us up? You and Connor still don't get along well and this could be part of some ploy to weaken our forces. Why should we trust you?" her words weren't as venomous as they could have been, but there was an unspoken anger behind them—probably because Haytham was known to hurt Connor.

Although William hadn't known expressly what happened between Haytham and Connor in Boston, he knew that it had been bad. But even so, the two had agreed to work together. During his weeks with the father and son duo under his roof, he had gotten an idea of what kind of men they were. Based upon his assumptions, he liked to believe that Haytham wouldn't betray Connor after so long.

There was a boom, like cannon fire. It came from the docks. Haytham cursed aloud, clenched his fists, and turned on his heel. "Fine! If you won't secure the roads and evacuate civilians, then I will!"

Duncan stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Haytham's eyes flashed, obviously debating whether or not to run Duncan through with a sword..

"'Aytham, wait," Duncan frowned. "Connor said that ye was tryin' to save the world by destroyin' them relics. Is tha' truly yer intention—by yer honor and whatever god you believe in?"

Haytham glared over his shoulder. "Yes."

Duncan studied the elder Templar for a moment, and then nodded. "Alrigh' then. Sounds like somethin's 'appening with the ship. William, get in touch with Caleb and see 'ow the roads look. I'll go down to the docks."

"I'll start evacuating civilians," Dobby nodded in Duncan's direction before narrowing her eyes at Haytham. "And you're coming with me, Haytham. If these Templars are after you, too, then you've got to evacuate."

Haytham argued, insisting that he was more than capable of fighting and that he didn't take orders from little Assassins. But a noise caught their attention instead.

William barely grabbed his weapons before he heard the snap and bang of a flare in the distance. He peeked out the window just in time to see a red trail of light fall from the sky.

His heart stopped and he cursed in French. "That's the signal flare!" he declared, hurriedly strapping his hooks to his waist. "Caleb's regiments are under attack!"

Duncan rubbed his temples and nodded. More cannon fire was echoing from the docks. "Then Dobby, Haytham, I expect you two will manage to work together this one time. The civilians know you, 'Aytahm. You've been teachin' their kids and if they can trust you wif their kids, then they're gonna trust you to enough to evacuate. William, If the roads are being attacked, then I'm going with you. Connor will have to h'old down the docks himself."

Within moments, they all sprinted towards the main road. Dobby and Haytham began evacuating the southernmost civilians while William and Duncan kept going past Big Dave's smithy. They barely made it before they spotted Caleb up the path, running towards them and with the thunder of marching footsteps in his wake. William's stomach eased in relief. Caleb looked healthy aside from the bit of blood running from his brow and his explosion-singed coat.

"FALL BACK!" he roared. "GET THE REINFORCEMENTS!"

William immediately sent up the second signal flare. They weren't prepared for a large scale defense, but what few Assassins and mercenaries they had hired were settled in a small, defensible mountain west of the manor. With any luck, they'd be able to hold their position until the reinforcements arrived. Running wasn't yet an option, not while Dobby and Haytham were still evacuating civilians.

"How many are we facing, Caleb?" William pressed.

The Sharpshooter urged Duncan and William to the side of the road. His lips were bloodless and grim.

"Hundreds? Thousands? I can't tell! They didn't come up the main road! Somehow, they snuck behind us and launched a surprise attack without us hearin' or seein' them! But their numbers don't make sense!" Caleb shook his head. There simply wasn't a way they WOULDN'T notice thousands of Templars just scaling a mountain and traipsing through the foliage! "And bullets aren't doin' too well! I've shot dozens of those Templar freaks, but only a few went down, and I know I didn't miss! I KNOW it!"

Duncan's brow furrowed and he exchanged glances with William. What kind of monstrosities were they up against? Caleb had placed his men on the cliff overlooking the main road. There wasn't any plausible way that they could've been ambushed from such a defensible position. But if the rumble of marching feet was any indication, the Templars somehow managed it. Hell, they even somehow got down from the cliff and were coming up the main road.

Duncan and William grabbed barrels of gunpowder and placed them next to and tree they had prepared earlier with a few well-placed hatchet blows. Caleb shot it from a distance and the ground rumbled like a bear awakening in her cave. The old tree—one dry and brittle next to the road—cracked like an old bone. It swayed dangerously, a drunkard who stubbed his toe, and fell across the road. It wouldn't be enough to stop the Templars, but it might be enough to stall them just long enough for reinforcements to arrive. The small team immediately took positions on the nearby rock outcroppings and another healthy tree just as the stampede of Templars rounded the corner.

William couldn't believe his eyes. There was an impossible amount of enemies! There was simply no logical way that they could all be Templars! They were lined up, practically shoulder to shoulder, in the narrow passage. It should have been simple to tear them down, like fish in a barrel, if not for the amount.

William swallowed the lump of fear in his throat. They weren't prepared for these numbers. Even so, he swallowed his trepidation and gazed down the barrel of his flintlock. He fired, and to his horror, the bullet passed straight through his target without a mark.

He cursed again, feeling icy terror claw up his arms. Caleb had been right! He couldn't shoot them! And they were already climbing over the felled tree without breaking a sweat! Duncan and Caleb didn't have any better luck either.

William's mind raced. If they could retreat, then they could make it to the weapon store west of the manor. There, they had cannons and they could blast away the numbers. But until they received the all-clear from Dobby and Haytham, they had to maintain positions.

Just maintain the position, and don't die. William breathed and repeated the mantra again and again in his head. Maintain position and stay alive, and they can run to the store house. Maintain position and stay alive and they can run to the storehouse.

He finished reloading and fired his flintlock again. This time, he was rewarded with a sharp scream and a spray of blood. William grimly congratulated himself and took aim on another Templar. He noticed something.

The ranks had thinned by at least thirty men. But that was impossible! Not only had they managed not two dozen shots between them, but the rate of success was poor! Yet William shot one man down, and thirty fell. It was connected.

What if there weren't thousands of Templars? What if they weren't ALL real?

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted," William whispered the creed under his breath. A thought later had him climbing down from the rocky outcropping.

"WILLIAM!? WHAT'RE YE DOIN'?!" Duncan bellowed to his subordinate. The other reinforcements, all 50 of them, finally arrived. They were already quaking in their boots as Templars climbed over the miniature barricade and began setting fire to the smithy and the tailor shop. The winter had been dry, so the fire took easily. At least Haytham and Dobby already cleared the nearest residences out.

"FLOUR! We need flour and lots of it!" he called back. He drew out his hooks and attacked a Templar trying to head him off. The blades went through the mirage's body and William kept barreling ahead.

"They're not all real! Target the real ones! Look for footprints or something! I'll be right back!" William cried one more time, ignoring the outraged cry of his brothers, and sprinted towards the inn.

Fortunately, the evacuation was going well. Over half of the civilians were already racing out of their homes, screaming about redcoats and fires. Even though William felt a pang of guilt for involving the innocent people, he didn't have the time to dwell on the misfortune. He crashed into the Mile's End and ransacked the kitchen. There were two 50 pound bags of flour. He hoisted one on his shoulder, tucked the other under his arm, and sprinted at full speed back to the battle.

By the time he arrived, he noticed at they were being pushed back further and further. The smithy was already engulfed in flames,

Caleb was hopping back and forth between a rocky outcropping and a tree branch to shoot his targets and then cover while he reloaded. Duncan was on the ground with the other mercenaries and thieves and Assassin recruits, trying to cleave their way through the Templar swarm and maintaining only mild success.

William climbed up the steep slope, creeping through the bushes and ignoring the sweat dripping down his brow, until he was above the majority of the Templars.

"Caleb!" he called to the Sharpshooter. The man in question peeked out from behind the rock while reloading his rifle. He was listening.

"When I throw this, you shoot it!" he called. Caleb raised an eyebrow, but didn't argue. He was obviously willing to try anything at this point.

William chucked the first bag of flour as high into the air as he could. Caleb's aim was true and the bag exploded in a cloud of white. Caleb smirked at his lover as they watched the flour settle on the Templars below. The cloud was still too dense to spot the real enemies from the fake ones, but William had another idea as well—one that might work.

Flour could act as more than a blanket to reveal the real Templars from the fakes—it was also highly combustible when airborne.

He scaled down the outcropping, the remaining bag of flour tucked under his arm, and dashed closer to the raging fire at the smithy. There was thankfully another tree that he tried to climb. Bullets began firing in his direction. He felt tree bark shatter in his face and distantly heard Caleb yelling, either at him or at the Templars. He was drawing their attention.

"MASTER LITTLE!" William called to Duncan. He gave the Master Assassin a hand signal to fall back. Duncan may have not understood the reasoning, but he concurred with a nod and shouted the order.

William, poised dangerously on a branch, prepared to throw the sack of flour into the air again. He glanced over to Caleb. The Sharpshooter was taking on heavier fire again and he was hiding behind the rock. Thankfully, the cloud of flour was still too thick for the Templars to get a clear shot at the Sharpshooter. William fought to maintain his balance and tried to think of another way to blast the bag open without Caleb's help. If he could throw it up high enough, then he might be able to shoot it himself, but then he wouldn't have time to jump from the tree.

Movement caught his attention. Caleb was ready again. He locked eyes with William and nodded with a cheeky thumbs-up. Horror rose in William's throat, but he reciprocated the nod.

With a roar of exertion, William hurled the bag of flour into the air, between the Templars and the raging fire. He jumped from the tree, just as bullet fired and flour began to fall like a lithe, deadly white cloud.

William only had time to look up once. Another gunshot echoed through the air, almost simultaneously.

Caleb lurched from the tree branch, a spray of blood flowing behind him like a misty wing. He plummeted to the seething mass below.

Just as William opened his mouth to scream, horror wrenching his gut and twisting his mind on end, the fire caught the airborne flour.

It ignited in an ear-splitting explosion.

The ground rocked and William fell. His eardrums burst and his eyesight was bombarded with a blinding sheet of white. He fell, the breath forced from his chest as if a giant had stepped on him.

Caleb. Where was Caleb?

William must have blacked out. He tried to open his eyes, but his head was throbbing. But where was Caleb? He had seen him fall. Caleb fell.

William tried to roll over. His vision was spotty, but it was slowly coming back. His ears were ringing and his chest hurt something fierce. Someone tried to help him up. He shrugged off their assistance and tried again to stand. His head swooned and he fought to keep his bowels and stomach in check. He had to find Caleb.

The man before him wasn't the Sharpshooter. As William's vision returned, he recognized Haytham as the elder Templar hoisted him upright. He was saying something, but William couldn't hear him. The Huntsman tried to pull away, tears streaming down his cheeks. The main road was littered with corpses of Templar and Assassin alike. He needed to find Caleb!

But Haytham ignored his hysterical screaming and raging French insults, and dragged him bodily from the battlefield. William fought the entire way. As they passed through the Homestead, William distantly realized that all of the buildings were on fire. Even the manor was engulfed in flames. People were screaming in the background and shouting orders, but he couldn't hear any words past the ringing in his ears. The ground rumbled with cannon fire. There were more Templars up ahead. They had overtaken the storage mountain west of the manor. The Assassins and civilians were falling back and heading north to the river. William knew that there was another hidden weapon store there, but he didn't care for safety and salvation; he only wanted to find Caleb. But a part of him already knew the truth.

Caleb had been shot. He fell into the throng of Templars just as the explosion ripped through the air. Even if the bullet hadn't killed him, the fall might have. Even if the fall didn't kill him, the explosion might have.

Caleb was dead.

William finally stopped struggling. It was too hard to breathe. He was hurting too much.

Haytham handed him off to another Assassin—Connor by the looks of it—and he felt himself lifted onto the Mentor's back and hauled to the safe cave network just past the river.

* * *

A relic was nearby. Haytham had felt it, even if he didn't have the amulet or another Piece of Eden to direct him. He could feel the power beckon. He could feel it calling, tugging at his soul as if he were hooked on a fishing line. It was only logical that he seek out the relic since he could see past the illusions with his Eagle Vision. It was only logical that he meet the danger head on instead of working alongside the Assassins.

But when Haytham saw William, writhing on the ground with blood trickling out of his ears and his eyes unfocused, he had to help. The relic still called to him. It screamed for him to follow. It sang a tempting lullaby and a siren's song. But Haytham grit his teeth and stooped. He couldn't let William die. He had the absurd thought that they still needed to finish their chess game. So instead, Haytham had scooped up the resistant Frenchman and dragged him to safety.

Haytham's French was rusty, but he knew what William was screaming about. He swallowed the lump of dread in his throat and forced his feet forward, one before the other. By the sound of William's screams, Caleb had been in the explosion.

Haytham had seen the blast clear from the church. There was little chance of the Sharpshooter surviving a force like that. As much as Haytham would have liked to sift through the bodies to find their friend (Friend? Caleb was an Assassin!), he knew that they didn't have the time. The Assassins were beaten back.

Haytham handed off William's struggling weight to Connor as soon as he could. The boy had been too late. By the time he arrived from the docks, the weapon store had already been on the verge of being overrun and half the Homestead was already aflame. But for what it was worth, the boy fought as valiantly as he could, considering the disadvantage they were at. Even so, they had to retreat. They simply couldn't fight against the weapons stored in the secret bunker as they were. The Assassins needed to regroup.

Connor had finally agreed to leave for the other bunker, but only reluctantly. It had been Duncan to convince him to go, being that the Homesteaders trusted Connor the most and were more likely to feel safety by his side than by any others.

While Haytham fully intended to join him, he felt the relic tugging at his mind again. It was closer than before. It was coming nearer and nearer, seeking him out like a dog. It was seeking him like the marble. He dashed away, just out of range of the cannons from the weaponized stronghold, and waited. Fortunately, it didn't take long.

A horse neighed in the distance, just up the smoking path. Its rider was silhouetted against the black clouds and flames like a demon from hell. Haytham recognized this man, though only distantly, as if they had met before.

He ignored the feeling and used his Eagle Vision. The figure and horse weren't illusions, but they weren't real either. There was some solidity to them in the form of a faint gold outline, but there was no flesh and bone. There was no pulse save for the relic screaming for his attention. Haytham raised his freshly loaded pistol. A bullet flew through the air and it should've struck the horse in the head, but instead, it passed right through.

Dammit. So this rider was different, but not so different that a well-placed bullet wouldn't do the trick.

Haytham didn't bother to reload his gun. The rider was too close to give him the chance.

"Haytham Kenway!" the man atop it called, his words thick with a German accent. He finally tread close enough to see. He wore the uniform of a Hessian, but green and brown. The emblem on his tall hat was no longer what it should have been—it had been replaced with a Templar cross complete with a flaming tree in the center.

Haytham frowned and wrinkled up his nose. He did recognize this man after all. "Gerhard von Stantten," he called. "I exiled you."

Yes, the Hessian—that's what his enemies called him. He had been a magnificent and ruthless killer capable of slaughtering all who stood in his way. But such violence wasn't something that Haytham had condoned and Stantten had acted outside of orders on multiple occasions. But he had still been useful. Rather than kill him, Haytham had exiled him to work in one of the deserts out west where his killing prowess could still be of use for other Templars.

"To think!" the German soldier crowed from atop his horse. "You banished me from the Colonies because you branded me a traitor! You claimed that squashing pathetic insects worked against our Code! BUT LOOK AT YOU NOW! You've allied yourself with the Assassins and you run around with them like rats in the wall!"

The Hessian drew out his sword and leveled it at Haytham. "I hereby sentence your treason with death, by order of my Master!"

Haytham snarled and drew his own sword. He wasn't fast enough to dodge a horse so easily anymore, but he hoped he could get lucky. Running would just make him a target and he refused to show his back to such a murderous cretin.

"Your Master can kiss my arse, Boy! COME ON!" Haytham goaded with more courage than he felt. The other Assassins and civilians had all retreated by now. He was alone. Although Gerhard von Stantten wasn't the best swordsman if Haytham's memory served correct, he was still a brutal one. And he had a Piece of Eden. Haytham could feel it, there, in Stantten's hip pouch. It was pulsing and crying out to him.

Even without seeing the relic, Haytham knew which one it was now. He was close, too close, and it reminded him of the knowledge he could never forget. That one was called the Dioscuri when whole, but Stantten only had one half. He held Castor in his belt. The Neo Templar Grandmaster must have had the other half, Pollux.

To his rising dread, Gerhard von Statten didn't charge right away. He reached into his hip pouch, almost as if reading Haytham's mind, and clenched the Piece of Eden in his hand. A heartbeat passed and there were suddenly two Hessians on horseback. Then another heartbeat and a third appeared. Another and a fourth materialized.

Haytham cursed and used his Eagle Vision on them. They were all semi-solid—bordering on illusion and reality. They were only pieces of the whole, just like the relic itself.

"Are you ready for us, Kenway?" they mocked in unison, their four voices perfect replicas of the real thing.

Haytham braced himself and not a moment later, all four Hessians charged.


	21. Chapter 20

**Crimmy Comments: **Oh man, this chapter was really hard for me to get through. But! I'm not nearly as far along as I'd like to be. So I'm going to be posting another **BONUS UPDATE** on Thicker Than Water on Monday, August 26th!

Also, you guys are always free to ask me any questions you might have about this fic (or in general)! I'll do what I can to answer without spoiling anything! Though, it's a little difficult to reply to anonymous comments on FFnet, so you're always welcome to bother my tumblr over at CrimsonEnigma dot tumblr dot com if you want to ask a question anonymously. Or hell, you're still welcome to bother my tumblr anyways. It's filled with general nonsense, a few drawings, and some random personal thoughts.

As always, I'm super lucky to have great readers like you guys! Thanks again and enjoy!

* * *

Gerhard von Stantten's replicas reared their horses at once. Each beast let out a high pitched whinny, as if they were steeds of the Apocalypse. Although the four illusions appeared as solid as a rock, the horses' eyes were still transparent. He could see the Homestead in flames through them, shining bright like hellfire.

Haytham frowned bitterly. It would be an understatement to say he put himself in a rough situation. He couldn't see himself coming out of this unscathed, or even alive.

But he wouldn't back down. Even though this was a terrible idea, the relic called to him, overriding his normally cool logic.

He remembered this Piece of Eden. It was called Dioscuri. It created life-like illusions and replicas of the user that could pass for flesh and bone. It could even go so far as to create a complete twin of the user—one so independent that it could almost function as a living being. Those Who Came Before had used it to keep their human slaves in check, as both a form of intimidation and in an effort to keep employment downsized. It could be split into two halves, duly named Castor and Pollux. While each half was weaker than the whole, they still could be used to intimidate humans and maintain crowd control.

But half of the relic should not be strong enough to create thousands of illusions and to mask an entire Man-of-war ship. Gerhard von Stantten held Castor, but someone else held Pollux. And somehow, the power of the relics was amplified.

Haytham needed to obtain the Dioscuri. He needed it. The amulet told him so.

The first horseman charged.

Haytham narrowly rolled under the blade trying to take his head. Not a heartbeat later, the second horseman came at him, sword swinging. This time, Haytham managed to parry the blow, but the inertia was too strong. He lost his balance and fell to his rear. Another charged and Haytham rolled partially out of the way, but it wasn't far enough. He covered his head with his arms in a futile attempt to keep his skull from being split open like a ripe melon. But the horse's hooves passed through him—THROUGH him—without any incident. Gerhard von Stantten was playing with him. He quickly recovered as all four Hessians laughed. He was surrounded now.

"Perhaps I'll take your head," the cavalry suggested at once, the multiple voices echoing like thunder. "I'll mount it on pike for your son to see."

Haytham bared his teeth. The Hessian was a headhunter—he had known that much for years. In fact, he exiled Gerhard von Stantten from the Colonies specifically because the Hessian had been lopping off civilians' heads in grotesque merriment. Gerhard von Stantten had used a disguise, something about a pumpkin, as he rode through the Frontier. Haytham would have none of that. He could remember his outrage at learning such an atrocity and banished Gerhard from the Colonies. Only now did he regret sparing the Hessian's life.

"Coward!" Haytham spat. "You're skulking behind the Piece of Eden like your mother's skirt! This isn't your work—this is the relic's."

The true Gerhard von Stantten was hiding nearby. Haytham could still feel it. None of the replicas were real. They looked real. They sounded real. But the horses' hooves didn't throw up any clods of dirt and their breath was stagnant. They only became corporeal when they attacked, which meant that the only time Haytham could strike was when they were striking at him. Such a feat was nearly impossible, but Haytham still searched for an opening. He pulled two throwing knives from his belt.

The next rider charged at Haytham with sword swinging and mocking laughter echoing in his ears. He rolled and turned on his knee before letting the knives loose. They embedded in the horse's flank just before the thing became intangible again. Stantten—the real one—couldn't control the illusion. The horse reared and whinnied in pain as the fake Hessian struggled to stay seated. Haytham took the opportunity and charged with more power than he thought he had in his old age. He vaulted onto the horse's back and slit the Hessian's throat. Blood sprayed in a fine red mist before the illusion fell out from under him.

Haytham crashed back to the ground unceremoniously and scrambled upright as another rider charged with a roar of fury. He barely managed to parry the blow and retain his footing. His chest throbbed at the old wound and a sting of pain shot down his left arm. But he remained standing as the cavalryman passed by.

Haytham ignored his body's protest and withdrew a dagger. One down, three more to go.

When the next rider charged, Haytham dove head on at the horse's breast collar. He used it as leverage to unbalance the animal and stabbed the poor thing in the neck. His aim was true and it hit the faux horse's carotid artery. The animal screamed, stumbled, and fell to the ground with a heavy thump, taking the Hessian replica and Haytham with it. They were both partially pinned under the struggling horse's weight.

Haytham had hoped that the illusion would be dismissed since the mount was down, but he wasn't so lucky. The Hessian scrabbled at him, trying to stab him with the cavalry sword. Haytham wrestled the fake in a tangle of limbs and a flurry of steel until he disarmed the illusion. He threw the Hessian's sword across the road, but then his own blade went flying as the illusion pulled out his bayoneted rifle. Haytham barely managed to divert the barrel of the gun before it fired, sending an unwelcome jolt through his body. Haytham managed to withdraw one of his legs and kick the Hessian's shoulder. His grip on the rifle loosened and Haytham threw it away as well. He writhed from beneath the horse, finally free, only to find the reins wrapped around his neck.

Haytham clawed at the thick leather as it pulled tight. The horse disappeared, but the faux Hessian and the reins remained as Haytham was forced to his knees. He ejected his hidden blade, trying to stab out behind him, but the reins were too long. The target was just out of arm's reach. Gerhard von Stantten's breath was harsh and greedy as he choked the air out of the elder Templar.

Haytham's head was swimming. His heart was beating so rapidly that it felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. He could feel his lips numb and his eyes burn. His lungs were struggling to take in more air, but he couldn't. His windpipe felt as if it was caught in a vice. He couldn't breathe and his head was lofty with lack of oxygen. He couldn't tell if the throbbing he heard was his heart or the amulet in his coat pocket or both. Haytham gripped onto the reins weakly, trying to give himself a little slack. He felt Gerhard lean close behind him and whisper into his ear.

"I've waited so long for this, Kenway," the German's accent was thick and rough. "Sie sterben jetzt."

The amulet pulsed.

Haytham reached back blindly, upon instinct, and grabbed the pouch at the Hessian's hip. He fumbled and yanked it away. Castor, half of the illusory relic, was within. Its power was tied to the real thing. Haytham felt it.

The amulet burned in his pocket, searing against his skin through the layers of fabric, and the fake Piece of Eden felt like a brand in his hand.

And then, Haytham wasn't on his knees, being strangled by an illusion of a man. Or rather, his body still was, but his mind was elsewhere. He could see Gerhard von Stantten—the real one—safe and deep in concentration in the stolen Assassin stronghold. But there was something else, some other connection. Castor, was connected to its twin, Pollux.

Haytham felt his mind travel along the thin connection like a spider on a web. Pollux was with someone else. He was a man, one who drummed his fingers against the armrest of his chair in displeasure. A wave of panic jolted through Haytham. The man had three relics—one was Pollux, another was some sort of power amplifier, and the third was something else—something stronger and deeply terrifying.

_"I told you to capture Haytham Kenway, not kill him,"_ the stranger said. His voice was familiar and prickled at something on the edges of Haytham's mind. He couldn't see the man's face, but he knew that this was the Neo Templar Grandmaster. Despite himself, Haytham was afraid, but he didn't understand why.

_"Master, this traitor deserves to die!"_ he heard Gerhard von Stantten's thoughts project in an impossibly loud thunder that shook Haytham to the core.

_"Do not disobey me, Gerhard,"_ the Grandmaster's voice was mild, yet riddled with unspoken threats. The Hessian didn't respond, but Haytham could feel him grudgingly oblige. The Grandmaster turned his attention to Haytham's mind. Even if Haytham couldn't SEE the Grandmaster, he could sense the scrutiny. He felt the smile cast his way and a sick nausea crept up his spine.

_"See you soon, Haytham."_

Haytham lurched forward, his vision spotty as he coughed and wheezed. The fake Gerhard von Stantten had released the reins and Haytham was back at the burning Homestead as quickly as he had left. His lungs burned and his throat throbbed with pain. Ah, but air! Glorious air was filling his aching lungs with every shallow wheeze.

The Hessian replica scoffed at the collapsed Templar and dug its heel into the back of Haytham's hand. He gave a raspy shout and his grip on the fake Castor faltered, but he didn't let go. Von Stantten cursed in German and stooped to try and pry the pouch away.

Haytham was about to use the Hessian's grip to pull his body up and eject his hidden blade into Gerhard's groin, but he didn't get the chance. A gunshot rang through the air and the replica's body jerked sideways as its head was dashed to meaty bits.

"'Aytham!" Duncan Little called to him.

The fake Hessian disappeared into the ether. But when the illusion fell, the pouch and copied relic went with it.

Haytham wheezed another curse and forced himself to stand. His body protested and his head was pounding, but his limbs obeyed his command. He swayed on his feet, but it was at least a bit more dignified that lying face-first in the dirt.

"Duncan Little?" Haytham hoarsely questioned. The Master Assassin warily moved into the fray, throwing aside the empty rifle and plucking his pistol from his belt. He trained it between the two replicated Hessians and moved closer to Haytham.

"Couldnnae 'elp but notice you wandered from the flock," Duncan's lips were thin and bloodless, "An' 'ere I thought that gettin' into tough spots was Connor's specialty."

Haytham coughed a few more times, but just smirked and withdrew a few more throwing knives from his belt. "Like father like son," he offered dryly.

Duncan made an unamused noise. "Any idea which one's real?" he asked.

"He's not here. These illusions are different. They can become corporeal when attacking, but they can only do it one at a time. If we defeat these imposters, then the relic's power will be drained."

Duncan muttered something about witchcraft as the two Hessians on horseback circled them.

"I _felt_ that amulet you have, Kenway," both of the Hessian's grinned darkly. "Master's something of a collector. I'm sure he will allow me your head if I present your relic to him."

Both of the horses disappeared and the Hessian replicas continued on foot. While Haytham was relieved that he wouldn't have to keep dodging hooves, he knew that it meant that the replicas would have a quicker turnaround rate between them. The transition between which illusion was real and which was not would be faster, giving them less time to both defend and attack. The Hessians readied their blades, smirked like a couple of cats stalking their prey, and pounced.

Haytham was lucky. The Hessian targeting him was first to become corporeal. The blow glanced off of Haytham's bracer, making him grit his teeth as his left arm was jarred unpleasantly. He thrust out with a hidden blade, only to miss, and ducked to avoid an oncoming swing to his chest. The Hessian struck at him again and Haytham moved to block with his bracer, but the blade wavered like a mirage and passed through his arm like a ghost. Haytham cursed and began evasive actions.

If Gerhard von Stantten were to make his replicas corporeal WHILE they were phasing through Haytham's limbs, then he would be stuck like a pig on a spit. He couldn't allow the Hessian such an opportunity. He thanked his stars that he practiced his footwork regularly with Connor for the past few months and fluidly dodged all incoming attacks.

Duncan grunted with effort as he fought the other replica. At least he had a sword and a pistol. Soon, the corporeal replicas switched solidity again. But Haytham was overly optimistic. He thought that it would be easy from here since there was only one opponent for each of them. But he had been presumptuous. Haytham jerked a little, his focus faltering, as he heard Duncan cry out in pain. The Assassin's sword clattered to the ground.

Haytham put some distance between himself and his own opponent to risk a glance over. His eyes widened in horror.

Gerhard von Stantten's arm was piercing Duncan's chest. He had materialized while his arm had been phasing through the Assassin's torso, literally skewing him. Duncan gasped and gripped the arm in a futile attempt to pull it out. Gerhard von Stantten chuckled darkly and pierced another hole in Duncan's chest with his sword.

Duncan choked on blood as his lung was run through, his throat too full suddenly to scream.

"I can feel your muscles clenching around me…" Gerhard murmured as one would to a lover. Duncan shuddered and gurgled in agony.

Haytham roared and charged forward. The replica faded through Duncan's body, again becoming a wraith and leaving a bloody fist-sized hole behind. Upon instinct, Haytham redirected his attack as Duncan fell to the ground. He spun on his heel, crouching like a Russian folk dancer, and lunged forward blade-first. The Hessian behind him jerked, the sword barely missing Haytham by inches as his hidden blade dug into the replica's liver. Haytham cut outwards, ripping through the layers of muscle and organ and skin with a shout. The illusion fell.

Haytham didn't waste another moment. Before the real Gerhard von Stantten could dismiss or manipulate the last replica into nothingness, Haytham tackled it and stabbed its heart. Blood gushed over his wrist, fleetingly warm and wet, before that replica also faded.

It was done. The copies of Gerhard von Stantten were finally gone.

Panting, Haytham stumbled towards Duncan's prone form. The Assassin's chest was heaving for air as blood drained from his body. Haytham was surprised that the man hadn't gone into shock yet, but perhaps he shouldn't have been. This was a Master Assassin, hand-picked by Connor. Even as Duncan was dying, his black robes shiny and wet with blood and a rosary squeezed in his palm, he fought.

Haytham's lips thinned grimly. There was no saving this man, but he wanted to do something. He _needed_ to do something.

Haytham moistened his lips and dug through his mind for Catholic prayers he had heard priests murmur to the dead and dying. They were faded and dry, like old flowers pressed in books and forgotten for decades, but he tried. He clutched Duncan's trembling hand, rosary still tightly captured within.

"I commend you, Brother, to your God. You have paid the debt of all mankind by death, you may return to thy Maker, Who formed you from the dust of the earth," Haytham knew that he was butchering the prayer, but he didn't care. He could see Duncan's eyes slowly slipping away. He could see the man dying before him and never had Haytham felt so close to another's spirit. He owed Duncan this. Haytham's lips kept fumbling for the right words, hoping that the prayer meant something coming from man like him, until he reached the end of the verse.

"…And may you enjoy the sweetness of knowing your God forever," Haytham hesitated as Duncan's eyes fully glassed over. His chest stopped rising. His hand relaxed as the last of the air squelched out of his bloody lungs.

Duncan was dead.

The Homestead still burned.

Haytham clutched the Assassin's hand one more time and closed Duncan's eyelids.

"Amen."

* * *

Haytham didn't have the time or the energy to bring Duncan's body to the bunker. Instead, he had propped the corpse against a smoldering fence post, rosary looped around its neck, and hoped that the Neo Templars wouldn't find and deface it.

He couldn't attack the western bunker yet, not while it was crawling with Neo Templars. But oh, the desire burned like a white-hot coal inside of his chest. He wanted to kill von Stantten and pry the relic from his lifeless fist. It was difficult to turn away from the gentle siren cries, but he stubbornly managed. He couldn't let Duncan's sacrifice go to waste by walking into certain death.

Weariness soaked into Haytham's bones as he approached the northern bunker. He made some hand signals so he wouldn't be fired upon and before long, there was a small ruckus and a rope ladder was tossed down. Haytham was immediately confronted by Connor.

"Where have you been!?" the Mentor growled, relief hidden by anger. His eyes were red and slightly puffy, but they were dry. He looked behind Haytham and frowned. "Duncan left to search for you. Where is he?"

Haytham didn't have the strength to say. He just sighed and shook his head.

Connor cursed and threw his hands up as if he were searching for something to strike. Instead, the Native turned his back and threaded his fingers in his own hair. Connor's knuckles were white.

"A word, please?" Connor's voice was strangled with emotion as he motioned for them to venture away from the other Assassins.

Haytham thought to argue. He was tired and just wanted to rest for a moment. But guilt was a strong motivator. He followed his son down a tunnel and into a private room furnished with a desk and a chair.

"Did Norris mine these tunnels for you? Or were they already here?" Haytham asked absently.

Connor ignored the questions, still unable to face his father. He braced himself against the edge of the desk, his shoulders tense with rage and his grip on the wood merciless.

Haytham sighed and counted the seconds until the dam broke. He didn't have to wait long.

"What were you thinking?!" Connor hissed under his breath. "You should have stayed with the group! You should not have pursued the enemy on your own! Now, Duncan is dead! And if not for him, you could have died, too!"

"…I needed to get closer to the relic," Haytham offered stonily. It sounded so trivial now.

"No, you did not. I know that you could spot the real Templars from the fakes. You should have stayed. We could have formulated plans and put together our knowledge of the enemy to draw them out and bring the relic to us! Instead, you ran off like a child, searching for some-some GLORY!"

Haytham balked. Connor whipped around to glare at him.

"It's because of your _carelessness_ that Duncan is dead!" Connor pointed an accusing finger at his father.

Haytham's nostrils flared. "How is it my carelessness!? You're the one who activated the amulet and gave away our location in the first place!" he spat. "Quit speaking as if I drove the blade through Little's chest! They did it! The Templars!" Haytham pointed towards the direction of the western bunker. He knew that they were bickering mindlessly, that their vehemence would get them nowhere. But still, Haytham glared at his son, daring for a rebuttal.

"You ARE a Templar!" Connor roared. "Or have you forgotten your allegiance so easily!?"

Haytham frowned in sudden surprise. Although he had never stopped thinking of himself as a Templar, he had begun to separate himself from the others. It wasn't just the Neo Templars that he differed from—he also thought of his past self as a separate breed. He didn't like this revelation.

Haytham took a deep breath and clenched his fists to keep from striking his son. "Connor, stop. I didn't kill Duncan. While I understand that he was searching for me because I sought the relic on my own, I did not kill him. The Neo Templars did. Their leader is named Gerhard von Stantten and he's been using a Piece of Eden called Castor. He's the enemy. They're the enemies. Not me."

Connor's face screwed up and twitched. "…I could have lost you," he said in a small voice.

Haytham couldn't help the small, bitter jerk of his lip. "But you didn't."

The two stood in silence a moment more, waiting for the waves to subside. They didn't do anything as sentimental as flinging themselves into each other's arms. They didn't sob and thank their gods or spirits. Instead, they shifted awkwardly and ignored the relief swelling in their guts despite the horrors they had witnessed.

"Tell me about this Templar and the relic," Connor asked. Haytham sighed and shared the information he knew. He could see that Connor was about to accuse him again for Gerhard von Stantten's survival, but the Assassin stopped himself. They needed to work together, and needlessly blaming each other wouldn't suffice.

"Then the power amplifier that you felt was how they managed to cloak two gunboats and a battleship," Connor mused bitterly.

"Yes. And it helped Gerhard von Stantten maintain the replicas' numbers."

"And von Stantten's Piece of Eden is now weakened? He will be relying on the Neo Grandmaster then."

"While the Neo Grandmaster is close, we won't get to him in time before he moves."

"Then we will defeat von Stantten and his illusions and retrieve Castor from him."

Haytham nodded in agreement. The two made battle plans. To his surprise, Connor appointed Haytham in charge of protecting the civilians and maintaining the bunker's integrity. He thought to argue, but his aching muscles and bones told him that partaking in melee combat would be a bad idea. After they had a few ideas, Haytham paused.

"…How are the civilians holding up?" he asked. A part of him just realized that he wouldn't be holding his reading lessons tomorrow.

Connor sighed. "They are…understandably distressed. We have lost a few people to burns and musket wounds, but thankfully only that."

Haytham heard the unspoken wish on the tip of Connor's tongue. He shared Connor's vain hope that all of the civilians were safe and alive. But alas, that wasn't the case. Connor listed off the names of the three that had passed and Haytham gave a solemn nod. He hadn't been close to those few, but he could tell that Connor felt each death like a knife in his soul.

When Connor relayed Faulkner's and Caleb's deaths to Haytham, the Templar could only nod dumbly. He already knew, but that didn't make the knowledge any less difficult to digest. So many good men had died so needlessly.

"Did you feel this…hopelessness when I…when I killed your comrades?" Connor asked quietly, a hint of fear in his voice.

Haytham nodded. "Yes. Hopelessness and much more. But we can't bring anyone back now more than I could then."

"No, but we can still protect the lives entrusted to our care," Connor finished solemnly.

Haytham agreed quietly and they wrapped up their impromptu meeting. Together, they visited the civilians.

The Homesteaders were housed in a separate room that was thankfully large enough to fit them all as comfortably as a cave could. They had blankets and water and a few rations, but it wasn't homey in the least. Children were wailing and parents were sobbing. Tense electricity hung in the air like the weight of a rainstorm rolling in. These people lost everything. They weren't just mourning the three lost civilians—they were mourning the life they had to leave behind.

Upon spotting Connor and Haytham, Terry and Godfrey confronted them. Each man's eyes were red and their beards still damp with tears.

"Let us fight, Connor!" Godfrey demanded. "If those blasted Redcoats want to start another war, then let them come at me instead 'o attacking like cowards! I'll take them down one by one!"

Connor shook his head gently. "I cannot allow that, Godfrey. They are not Redcoats. They are far more dangerous."

By that time, many of the other Homesteaders had their attention stuck to Connor like molasses.

"What'dya mean, they weren't Redcoats?" Terry raised an eyebrow.

Connor shifted a few times and took a deep breath. "I…I cannot…I…Telling you would put you in more danger than you already are," he offered lamely.

Godfrey's face boiled red. "I think we're already past that point, Connor! Tell us who those bastards are!"

The Native sighed again. "…They are called Templars. Specifically, they are Neo Templars."

Haytham knew that it was against both the Creed and the Code to talk about the ancient war embroiled between the two factions. But these people deserved to know. Their lives were already tangled in the mess and they deserved some explanation. Nothing but the truth would do in such a situation as this—not when everyone could still die.

Connor told the Homesteaders about the Templars and the Assassins. He was careful to keep details at bay, but his defeat already belied his discomfort. Haytham supplemented what information was appropriate and they waited for a response.

To Haytham's surprise, only half of the expected numbers sneered and shot their glares of hate at Connor. The other portion burned with a fire of vengeance.

Terry and Godfrey both mulled over the information like a bitter medicine. "Then that settles it, Connor. Let us fight. Let us help you!"

Connor blinked at them, bewildered. "You…would still fight by our sides? Even after you have been unwillingly dragged into a war of such magnitude?"

Godfrey smirked bitterly and thumped Connor on the back. "We're not about to let some pushy bastards have the last laugh. Besides, it looks like you're running low on soldiers. I don't know how to fight all fancy like you and your pap, but I'm not about to sit back and watch these bastards get away with this destruction! Like it or not, Connor, we're fighting by your side."

Terry nodded behind him. Norris and Myriam rose as well, cradling their sleeping daughter. Warren stood and Hunter held his father's hand. Big Dave and even Dr. White came forward. Slowly and surely, the majority of the Homesteaders stood to fight. They looked to Connor, their leader, and awaiting their new orders.

Connor scrubbed his suddenly moist eyes on the back of his glove, and beamed at his comrades.

"We've got a lot of work to do."

* * *

**Crimmy Comments: **Thanks again! See you all on Monday!


	22. Chapter 21

**Crimmy Comments:** BONUS CHAPTER! *glee*

Also, a fun side note: Gerhard von Stantten is the Headless Horseman from the Frontiersman missions. Erudito alludes to the possibility in canon, and I so totally abused it for this fic. That's why he's all headhunter-tastic and likes riding horses into battle and why Haytham dun like him and all that fun stuff.

* * *

Haytham awoke with his heart thundering in his ears and his hands clenched tightly, ready to release the catch on his hidden blades. He didn't do anything as dramatic as yelling or shouting or even springing upright. He merely opened his eyes, his body tense and ready, and trusted his instinct.

There was no threat.

Part of Haytham's consciousness, still fuzzy with fatigue, thought that the past handful of hours had been a nightmare. But each passing moment brought crystal clarity to the disaster outside of the bunker cave. The Templars had attacked, the Homestead had burned, and the Assassins had retreated. People were dead—both civilians and comrades alike.

Haytham had been taking a much needed nap in a quiet corridor, away from the Assassins and the Homesteaders. It had finally begun to rain, thoroughly drenching the smoldering ruins of the Homestead and ensuring that fewer trees could facilitate a raging inferno. It was only be luck alone that they didn't have a forest fire to contend with alongside the Templars. The smoke was already thick and heavy in everyone's lungs, and Haytham felt it keenly in his age.

Had it been the torrent of rain that awoke Haytham? Or had it been some nightmare? He couldn't be certain. He knew that he had been dreaming, but the content was vague and distant. He was already forgetting it with each moment of consciousness. But he did remember that laughter. He remembered the man's voice that traced cold venom up his spine and made his dream-self feel utterly, terrifyingly helpless.

_'See you soon, Haytham.'_

Even though he only heard the Neo Grandmaster's voice once, he couldn't help but feel as if he knew it from some time long ago and far away. But that was ridiculous! Fatigue probably drained his mind of the tight control he fought for. There had been so much death and destruction in the past few hours that it was only natural for a man to feel the weight of despair on his shoulders like Atlas. He was probably only _imagining_ his fear of the Neo Grandmaster. Haytham couldn't have been actually frightened of a man he had never met. That fool was just another enemy and Haytham always cut down his enemies with methodical precision.

Haytham refused to be afraid. Not only could he fail to find a decent reason to feel fear, but he was determined to maintain complete and absolute composure. He had been a Templar Grandmaster for decades and he was not about to be cut down by the fool of the Neo Templars. He had his pride and reputation to uphold.

And he had a mission.

Deciding that he'd had enough rest, Haytham stood from the hard floor, his joints popping and his muscles sorer than he wished they'd be. He stretched mildly, taking another mental note of his array of bruises, and decided to do something productive. Many of the men and women had been taking rounds of sleep, and even though Haytham had awoken prematurely, he figured that he could relieve someone and get to work.

But just as he thought that, he felt something. Haytham scrunched up his face and blinked rapidly. Even with his eyes open, he could see images of places that weren't in the corridor with him. He could see the smoldering remains of the manor nearby. He could feel the smoke and humid air on his skin. He could feel the patter of rain on his cloak. But Haytham was very clearly in a mined cave! He rubbed his eyes in frustration, but the images only became more vivid when his eyelids closed.

And then, he suddenly _knew_ that Gerhard von Stantten had found the amulet Core, the same way that he _knew_ the Hessian held Castor. Haytham cursed as the mental images faded away.

Bollocks. Connor would probably think him mad, but he needed to inform his son of the disturbing new development.

Haytham briskly walked to the makeshift drawing room. There were no doors, so he could hear his son arguing clearly. Haytham waited in the hallway, not wanting to get involved in their dispute.

William de Saint-Prix was insisting that he be allowed to attack the other bunker alone. When that notion was shot down by an angry Connor, William begged to be allowed on the main defensive team that was going to suffice as ground combat. Again, Connor blatantly denied him.

"Please, Mentor, give me the chance to fight that rotten bastard!" William insisted. "Just because I am half-deaf doesn't mean that I'm useless!"

"No, but it is a disability nonetheless," Connor said sternly. "You are not fit for melee combat and your desperation is leading you out of control."

"But Mentor-!"

"No!" Connor snapped, effectively diminishing William's argument to a stifled whimper. "Acting so brashly against the enemy is as foolish as it is SELFISH! Yes, I recognize that you are mourning and that you want revenge! But your demands are nothing but permission to run off and veritably commit SUICIDE!"

It sounded as if William opened his mouth to speak, but Connor cut him off again.

"I have already given you your mission! It is a direct blow to the Templars—one that will cripple their offensive abilities! Is that not enough latitude, or must you throw away your comrades' lives along with your own!? Did Caleb's sacrifice merit nothing but your childish tantrum!?" Connor wasn't shouting, but his words punched through the air like lightning.

William fell silent and Haytham could practically feel the Huntsman's frustration.

Finally, William conceded. "I-…I understand, Mentor," his voice shook.

Haytham cleared his throat and finally entered the room.

"Connor, a word?"

William and Connor both glanced at Haytham, having not noticed his presence in the hallway past their heated exchange.

Connor nodded to William. "Get some water, cool your head for ten minutes, and return. I must review the map with you again."

The Huntsman bowed solemnly to his Mentor, his face a myriad of anger and sorrow, and hurried out of the room.

Connor regarded Haytham with a weary, raised eyebrow.

"Gerhard von Stantten has the amulet core," Haytham didn't bother to mince his words.

Connor cursed and narrowed his eyes. "How do you know this?"

Haytham sighed. He knew he'd have to tell Connor sooner or later, but it never felt like the right time. Perhaps there wasn't such a thing as 'good' timing for this sort of thing.

"I can feel the relics, Connor," Haytham started. His son motioned for him to continue with a nod of his chin. "As you already know, the amulet has two parts—the ring and the core. The ring is a key, one that unlocks Precursor doors and artifacts. The core is…is similar to a vast library, but it can only be unlocked and accessed with the ring. It has…an instinct to constantly expand the library. It's attracted to people with First Civilization blood—like you and me—and to other Pieces of Eden.

"When a person accesses the information, the amulet offers what the person is willing to give. It copies facts and figures and statistics from the user's mind and in return, it offers knowledge. But the price is not only to lose oneself within the vastness. The relic makes a bond with the user and uses him to locate other Pieces of Eden, all in the interest of gathering more information for its library."

Connor nodded slowly, as if he had already heard half of the explanation before and was putting the puzzle together. "You are bonded with the amulet. That is why you can..._feel_ the other Pieces of Eden and why you know so much about them," Connor scrunched his nose in disgust. "You have given part of yourself to the amulet. I saw it, when the core activated this afternoon."

Haytham scoffed quietly and fought the wave of shame.

"If you have known where all of the Pieces of Eden are, why did you not pursue them? If they are as strong as you claim, you could have used them to overthrow the world." Connor asked.

"…I had initially intended to do just that. But I was convinced otherwise." Haytham couldn't help a bittersweet smile. "Charles Lee saved the world from my greed."

Connor furrowed his brow in disbelief, but he refrained from pursuing that line of questions. Instead, he opted for the typical Assassin approach. "Do you still intend to use the relics for your own personal conquest?"

Haytham fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Haven't I answered that enough?" he snapped. But Connor clearly wanted to hear it again. "No, I want to destroy the relics precisely that the world won't fall into the disarray that the Neo Templars threaten it with now! I had hoped to avoid this level of conflict! No man should be using the Pieces of Eden! They weren't meant to be controlled BY humans! They're too dangerous to exist where man can threaten entire continents and countries!"

"You said that the Neo Templar Grandmaster possesses several relics, and now von Stantten retains Castor and the amulet core."

Haytham affirmed.

"Can the relics actually be destroyed?" Connor asked, the barest hint of fear tainting his tone.

The Templar rubbed his temples in exasperation. "Yes, but only with some…difficulty. Only a relic can destroy another relic, similar to how only diamond will cut diamonds. Additionally, the relics must be whole for them to be destroyed."

Connor's lips thinned bitterly. In order to destroy Castor, it needed to be first reunited with Pollux and then struck with the power of another relic. Likewise, it meant that the core of the amulet could only be cracked while it was activated and by another relic.

The Mentor huffed angrily and hurried back to the maps and diagrams littering the drawing room. "We need to begin mobilizing now. If von Stantten manages to access the core's information without the amulet ring, then we will be doomed."

Within moments, Connor had called another meeting between his primary troop leaders. William, although temporarily deaf, followed by reading Connor's lips. Dobby nodded in understanding and Big Dave looked grimly upon his new commander. After briefing them once more, they departed again.

Only Dobby and Haytham remained behind, and Haytham, unwilling to witness such disgusting lovebirds, excused himself to the hall.

Dobby looked firmly upon her Mentor. "I think I oughta head to the lighthouse and round up those sailors still stationed down there," she insisted. "I know that I'm supposed to lead alongside Big Dave, but I've already talked about this to him. He's been in the military and he's alright with redirecting our forces as necessary."

"No! You should stay here and fight by our side!" Connor insisted.

"With all respect, Mentor, I can't do that. I've been a messenger for most of my life and I've relayed information to parties in tighter situations than this. There's no other person fit to deliver the mobilization plans to the lighthouse troops but me and you know it."

"…What if I lose you, too?" Connor asked, his voice suddenly lacking assertion.

Dobby smiled, her eyes wrinkling at the corners in the way that Connor adored. "Your heart's so big and full of love that I'm sure you'll have room in there for some young lass one day."

Connor knew that she was right. Dobby had the best chance of anyone to reach the lighthouse unscathed, relay the information, and lead the reinforcements back to the bunker. He embraced her fiercely, his arms shaking. "…Return to us. Promise me that you will return."

Dobby slowly peeled out of his arms and stood on her toes. "I don't believe in goodbyes." Her voice was soft and sad as she gently kissed Connor's cheek and left the drawing room.

* * *

Connor was in a particularly somber mood after his interaction with Dobby. Haytham noticed and it bothered him to no end. Regardless, he tried to convince Connor to take a nap. The lad was blatantly exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally. He had felt every death and injury as if it was his own and he was strained between self-indulgent sorrow and duty. It took some time, but Connor eventually agreed to a nap. Surprisingly, he allowed Haytham to continue preparations in his stead.

Haytham liked to think that it was because Connor trusted him not to run the operation into the ground, but it was more likely that he was only entitled because he was the most experienced leader of the lot.

A good number of Assassins had thankfully survived the initial onslaught. The Templars had come down the river just a stone's throw east, but Connor had seen to it to preemptively set up a small, but effective defense along the bank. The band of Neo Templars had been soundly defeated and the Assassins were free to join the main group. It was unlikely that the Templars would try to attack via that river again, primarily because they had already seized so much land and the bunker. Although the Assassins' numbers were still fewer than Gerhard von Stantten's army, Haytham felt much more comfortable about their potential.

Many of the Homesteaders and a handful of Assassins continued making the small, hand-held bombs that Norris laid out for them. As it turned out, Connor had commissioned the miner to construct the halls of the bunkers and also to create a small network of tunnels underground (tunnels that were thankfully still unknown to the Templars). Although the majority of the bunkers were naturally formed, Norris had refined them and made them usable. Though unfortunately, he had been misled. Connor had told Norris that they would be for storage of goods from his naval trades until they could be partitioned out into land convoys. While there was no doubt that some of the caves were used for that purpose, it was clear that wasn't the only reason for them.

But Norris had been quick to forgive Connor and immediately offered his assistance. He was an expert at explosives and quickly fashioned small bombs from the supplies they already had. Also, he mentioned that he still had plenty of explosives back at his mines.

Connor had assigned William, Norris, Godfrey, Oliver, and one Assassin to retrieve them. William was still an excellent leader, despite his hearing loss; Norris knew the mines like the back of his hand and without a light; Godfrey was familiar with the routes along the back of the western cliff due to his logging; and Oliver still had a strong back regardless of his age. Together, they weaved through the trees, thankful that the flames hadn't reached past the western bunker, and made the dangerous trek to Norris' mines. Once underground, they loaded up the various gunpowder and explosive kegs onto wooden mining carts and snuck into the secret tunnels beneath the bunker.

Haytham practically counted the minutes. If William's team was on time, then everyone would know very shortly.

The Templar peeked over the edge of the rocky outcropping, spyglass in hand, and squinted into the darkness. He checked his pocket watch again and looked to the creeping gray light on the horizon. It was nearly dawn.

_**BOOOOM!**_

The ground rumbled and a few of the Homesteaders screamed from inside the caves. Haytham kept his spyglass trained on the enemy's station.

The western cliff-side trembled and shook as if a giant were awakening from within. A few flames licked out of cracks in the rock and smoke billowed from the cave mouths like an old man puffing on his pipe.

Haytham dashed inside to awaken Connor, but the Mentor was already groggily stumbling towards him. Haytham handed off the spyglass and the Assassin glanced out at the handiwork. Connor bared his teeth hungrily. It was time.

Connor hurriedly directed civilians to a safe, reinforced portion of the bunker. Prudence and Ellen watched over the children and the others helped to move the injured and elderly.

Haytham gathered up his team and rolled the cannons near the outcropped ledge. The cannons were partially protected by the terrain and had an excellent aim just past the shallow river. Lance, Warren, an Assassin recruit, and Corrine (_iWho the __**hell**__ do you think wins bocce every Saturday!?'_) took up their stations. Hunter and a few able-bodied Homesteaders began loading the cannons and dragging over the other ammunition. Several Assassins took up their rifles, flopped belly-first on the ledge, and peered out to the horizon.

Connor and his Assassin troops hid in nearby foliage on the ground, ready to drop out at a moment's notice. Meanwhile, Big Dave, Myriam, Terry, and another smattering of Assassins awaited their chance to mobilize. It wasn't much longer before William's team rejoined them, each man sweaty and covered in dust and soot. They didn't waste any time before taking up rifles and blades to prepare for the odd Templar who may make it up the cliffside in one piece.

Haytham peered against the horizon. No Templars had exited the other bunker yet. That couldn't be correct. He switched to his Eagle Vision and smirked. They were hiding all of the troops under the illusions again.

Those bastards thought they could use the same trick twice, did they?

"B5," Haytham ordered, thankful that they had created a rudimentary coordinate system to tell them where to aim which cannon. After all, only Connor and Haytham could see past the enemy's illusions. They had already briefed everyone on what sort of tricks to expect, so they were prepared to strike out at open space or ignore an incoming enemy if Connor or Haytham identified a threat. Warren directed his cannon and waited for the signal.

Haytham watched as the Templars marched into range, still unbeknownst to common eyes. Connor gave the first signal, a bird call. Haytham made a hand gesture. Warren fired his cannon into the seemingly empty path across the other side of the river.

But instead of hitting dirt, the cannonball ripped through a regiment of Templars. They scattered and disappeared as the real bodies were smashed and the illusions dispersed. Simultaneously, the rest of the masking illusion fell, revealing another few thousand soldiers. It was a hodgepodge of flesh and mimicry, but the numbers weren't as staggering as they appeared. They could win.

Connor gave another signal as soon as the Templars were close enough. His troops sprang from their hiding places and began melee combat with the Templars. Big Dave took that as the signal to move his small group into the trees, following Myriam's hunting routes until they were behind the enemy. From the half-burnt treetops, they began alternating between throwing hand held bombs and scurrying for cover.

A line of riflemen aimed up at the cliffside where Haytham's and William's teams were, but the bullets only cracked rock. The Templars rolled up a few cannons of their own, but they didn't get the chance to aim or fire before Haytham ordered another blast at them.

Cannon fire, the echoes of gunshots, and the cries of men and women filled the air like a breath from hell. The cacophony was deafening and roaring and terribly gratifying in the foreground of the muddy, smoldering ruins of the Homestead. It tasted like revenge and freedom and a cry against chaos. Civilians fought for their right to live and Assassins fought for their Creed. And Haytham? Haytham fought because it was the right thing to do. He didn't believe that it was a move against order and organization. Gerhard von Stantten and the Neo Templars needed to be stopped for everyone's sake. They were destruction in the flesh and they had caused enough grievance.

The battle was going largely in the Homesteaders' favor. As he directed his team's cannons, he also searched the field for the Hessian. Unfortunately, Gerhard wasn't there. He cursed repeatedly and kept searching while keeping up the thundering defense.

When Gerhard von Stantten finally arrived on the battlefield, he wasn't alone. He had the relic, Castor, in the palm of his hand and he was speaking to it like a lover.

Haytham watched in fascination and dread as a giant wooden siege tower literally grew from the ground up. It was nearly as tall as the cliff itself and was lined with some sort of metal sheeting that Haytham had never seen before. The thing was on massive black wheels and it glowed a faint gold in Haytham's Eagle Vision. It was like Gerhard von Stantten's replicas of himself. But it had multiple cannons mounted on the front and fired without a person to aim it.

"COVER!" Haytham yelled just before the cannon balls hurdled their way. His team barely had enough time to duck safely away. Two cannons were put out of commission immediately and a third was damaged. Haytham cursed and ordered the Assassins to take the station so that the civilians could remain covered for the moment. Reluctantly, they agreed and Haytham ordered them to fire. The cannonballs flew through the wood and metal tower.

Castor was too weak to create such an illusion; at this point, the siege tower was only held up by Pollux and the amplification artifact that Haytham had felt with the Neo Grandmaster. Castor was only the conduit for which the power flowed through.

Haytham's team had to cover again as a cannon ball slammed into the rock face again, threatening to crumble the outcropping that the cannons were on. Another few volleys were passed back and forth before Haytham grit his teeth and nearly ordered his men to retreat. He could handle Assassins on the battlefield, but civilians were an absolute last resort for melee combat. Haytham refused to risk their lives like that.

But as the Templar looked out over the battle with his spyglass, he noticed movement behind the siege tower. He held his breath and watched. Within moments, just as the siege tower was about to fire another round of cannons, the base blew like a firecracker. Greedy tongues of flame erupted from the tower and it faltered and trembled like a leaf burning on the breeze.

"I don't believe it, that cocky bastard," Haytham smirked. He hollered for William's attention and tossed him the spyglass. Confused but willing, the Huntsman turned his attention to the burning and crumbling siege tower.

William pulled away, blinking wildly, looked again, and laughed like a starving man before a buffet or a prisoner before salvation.

"Ce merveilleux petit diable!" he cried under his breath, moisture gathering in his eyes.

Caleb was alive.

The Sharpshooter and Dobby rode on horseback from the south with dozens of Assassin reinforcements trailing behind them. Although Caleb looked worse for wear, with one bandaged arm haphazardly holding the reins and half of his hair and hat singed away, he was alive.

Caleb was alive.

Haytham's and William's teams attacked with renewed vigor. After the Templar's cannons had all been shot down and the siege tower disappeared into the ether, William's troops headed towards the ground to join in the melee combat while Haytham instructed his teammates with rifles.

The Assassins were winning. The illusions began to falter and fall away and the remaining Templars were herded and slaughtered mercilessly.

Haytham trained his spyglass again, searching for Connor. He spotted the Assassin Mentor and felt a stroke of pride light up his chest as Connor fought Gerhard von Stantten from horseback. Gerhard was screaming and yelling incomprehensibly as their steel clashed again and again.

Connor dragged Gerhard from his horse, simultaneously falling from his own. The two continued their intense sword fight on the ground. Their boots squelched in the fresh mud, but only Connor was prepared. The Hessian clearly was unaccustomed to fighting on such terrain.

Connor advanced again and again. Although he was clearly fatigued, he still pressed the Hessian back further as the other battles raged around them. Finally, Connor's blade struck true. He ran Gerhard von Stantten through the chest, next to his heart.

The Hessian's body shuddered violently, convulsing like a fevered man, and fell. Connor followed him down, and from what Haytham could gather, Connor was speaking to Gerhard in the White Plane that only humans with First Civilization blood could access. Even though Connor's expression only faded into vacancy for a few seconds, Haytham was certain that his son had passed more than a few words to and from Gerhard as the Hessian died. Without further ado, Connor reached into Gerhard's pouch pockets and pulled forth both Castor and the marble.

He held them up with a victorious roar.

Within a few moments, the Templars were dead. The Homesteaders and Assassins had rid the world of Gerhard von Stantten and his troops.

Though the Homestead lay in ruin, a smoldering skeleton of her former glory, they had won.

The sun rose over them all.

* * *

For the next several hours, the Homesteaders and Assassins celebrated their victory. They screamed and whooped and hollered in glory. They wept and shuddered and shrieked in sorrow. They thanked their gods and their stars and everything in between.

Connor was a shining hero. Everyone seemed to delight in making him terribly uncomfortable with gratuitous praise and appreciation. Haytham preferred to skulk in the shadows. Although he didn't mind recognition like Connor did, he certainly had no desire to face all of the Assassins yet. They weren't his comrades—he merely worked with them for this special occasion.

William spotted Caleb in the crowd and immediately dragged him out of sight. But where Caleb expected his partner to fling himself into his wounded arms, William only delivered a punch to the Sharpshooter's gut and a fierce kiss on the lips.

William cursed at Caleb in French, muttering horrible things that ought not come from a lover's mouth. But it only made Caleb smile, weariness abandoned in the face of his partner. Caleb put his finger to William's lips, shushing him for a moment.

"Lady Luck and Lady Death tussled for my soul," he kissed William's forehead. "You can see who won."

William cursed again and flung himself at Caleb. The two were mysteriously absent for the rest of the festivities.

* * *

The next morning, the Homesteaders and Assassins greeted the day with renewed determination.

First, Father Timothy said one more solemn word for the fallen ranks, who had been freshly buried the night before.

After, Connor publicly promoted William de Saint-Prix to a Master Assassin of Boston and also moved many others up in rank. Caleb had given his lover a cheeky grin and a thumb's up before the Huntsman took his leap of faith. William suppressed his grin and truly soared on the wings of an eagle.

Connor had also ventured to the burnt ruins of the manor and managed to recover a chest. It was heavy, but he insisted on taking it with them as they paddled boats upstream and made rudimentary convoys to travel along the bank. But when they had come far enough to safety, Connor gathered his remaining Homesteaders and made an announcement.

"We have all lost many things these past few days—allies, friends, family, homes. But we have not lost our spirits. So in the name of prosperity, I would like to give this to you all," Connor presented the Homesteaders the chest he took from the manor. It was filled to the brim with coin and bills.

"I have been investing for a long time now, and I would like to give this to you—my friends—as payment for lost property. It cannot bring back the dead or what you had, but maybe it can help you cultivate a new life."

"Connor," Godfrey shook his head sadly. "We don't want your money. You're not responsible for what those monsters took from us."

Connor only smiled sadly and shook his head. "I bear a degree of responsibility. But beyond that, I offer this because you all mean so much to me. It would be an honor for you to take this coin. I would advise everyone to move far away from here and to cut all ties with me and mine lest Templars strike again. Please." Connor didn't need to beg any further. The desperation laced his voice and made Godfrey's voice choke in his throat. The Homesteaders nodded, muttering and crying in thanks.

The Assassins moved on, back to the cities they hailed from. But Connor took his time saying his farewells to each and every civilian.

Haytham almost thought he could slink away before he felt someone tug lightly on his coat. He looked down in surprise. Hunter looked up at him, sadness and something like hope in his eyes. Haytham's heart seized in his chest and he found himself slowly crouching to the boy's level despite his protesting knees.

"Practice your letters," Haytham offered. "And remember to read every day."

Hunter nodded and threw himself at the elder man. Haytham awkwardly reciprocated, feeling the warmth blossom in his chest. Part of him wanted to stay with the Homesteaders. He wanted to continue teaching the children and idle his days away. But he could not. It was too dangerous for them. He couldn't' forgive himself if they were dragged into another mess because of who he was and used to be.

A few other children and Homesteaders also bade Haytham farewell, much to his surprise. It was shorter than Connor's, but no less sweet.

Before long, Connor and Haytham both rode away on their horses. Castor and the amulet were tightly bound in separate pouches on Connor's hip and the amulet was resting in Haytham's pocket. They had fresh ammunition and plenty of rations for their journey ahead.

"We cannot afford to dally again," Haytham said quietly after some time. "We must go on the offensive now. We can't continue running and waiting for the Neo Templars to attack."

Connor nodded in agreement. "But first, I fear that we have a small detour."

Haytham raised his brow in curiosity and allowed Connor to continue.

Connor shifted a mite uncomfortably. "When the amulet activated, it took my consciousness to a different place."

"The White Plane," Haytham supplemented.

Connor nodded again. "Yes. But I did not access the relic's information. Charles Lee saved me. Then, he showed me a location. I believe he wants us to go there."

Haytham's sharp breath was the only surprise he allowed to show. But he didn't argue. Instead, the Templar pursed his lips into thin lines and nodded slowly. "Very well. Lead the way."

* * *

**Crimmy Comments:** ARRGH you've no idea how long I've held back the temptation to reassure everyone that Caleb wasn't really dead! You guys really have to thank my girlfriend for that. When I was planning this chapter months ago, I really WAS going to kill Caleb off for metaphorical reasons. But then my girlfriend threatened me, um…colorfully? So I promised her that I'd make sure that he survived, but that I still totally needed him to at least appear dead (again, for metaphorical reasons).

So I'm really sorry for playing with everyone's feels like that! But, um, it was really fun? Please don't hate me and have a happy mental image of Caleb and William cuddling and doing naughty things with each other.

ALSO Happy late birthday to mykonos on AO3 and Happy birthday to CookieKiller on FFnet! I hope you guys had/have great days!

Love you all and see you on Thursday!


	23. Chapter 22

**Crimmy Comments:** Well, I'm no more fluent in Mohawk now than I was several chapters ago. Please excuse my dreadful attempt at Charles Lee's wife's name. If this is horribly wrong, please let me know the correct word to use.

* * *

**April 20, 1785**

A few days had passed since they set out from the Homestead. Their progress was slower than Connor would have liked, but he could feel the weariness in his bones and mind. He also realized that if he was tired, then Haytham was probably doubly exhausted. They rested often, and Connor couldn't find the will to refuse.

They made camp and settled down for the night, and as Connor took his time turning the rabbit over on the spit again, he watched Haytham gently readjust his cravat. Something caught his eye and he raised a curious brow.

"What?" Haytham frowned under the scrutiny.

Connor edged forward and was about to pull Haytham's cravat away before he remembered their agreement. He leaned back again, firmly keeping his hands to himself.

"You have marks on your neck," Connor stated, keeping both the worry and jealousy at bay.

Haytham rolled his eyes. "It's nothing Boy, really."

"Then if it is nothing, you will not mind me examining it."

Haytham opened his mouth to argue, but after a pause, he only sighed heavily and removed his cravat entirely. Connor took the invitation and brushed his fingers lightly over the angry bruises. The marks were livid and black in the firelight. Someone had tried to strangle Haytham with rope or some other comparable thing. At least it would explain why the snappish Templar hadn't been arguing half as much as usual and he had rubbed his throat often.

"Is this from Gerhard von Stantten's replicas," Connor lightly traced the bruises, distantly noting the goose bumps that rose in the wake of his calloused fingertips. Thinking about the Homestead in flames still made his heart shudder and his mouth dry.

Haytham finally pulled away. "Yes. But as you can see, I'm very much alive. Cease your worrying. You've been out of sorts since we left."

Even though Haytham probably hadn't meant for his words to be insulting, they struck Connor's heart like an arrow. He huffed and pulled away in order to keep from lashing out at his father.

Of course he was out of sorts! His home had burned to the ground, not for the first time! Worse yet, the battle had cost innocent people their homes and livestock and lives! They lost everything! Civilians and Assassins both had died!

And it was all Connor's fault.

If only he had seen the attack coming, if only he hadn't gotten so damn comfortable in a domestic life, then he could've prevented such tragedy! If only he had left a few days prior, then he could've lured the Templars away from the Homestead. He could have circumvented the attack. He could have saved everyone.

"It's not your fault, Connor," Haytham infiltrated Connor's sorrow. "Even if you hadn't touched the amulet, the Neo Templars were too close and too organized to overlook the Homestead. They would have attacked regardless."

The Native just sneered and looked away. Haytham was good at using euphemisms with his honeyed tongue. Connor didn't want to listen. He didn't want to be patronized.

"What would you know about taking responsibility for the slaughter of innocent people?" he spat, immediately regretting the words.

Haytham jerked a little at the acid and shifted as if he was contemplating leaving the fire.

"Wait! Do not go," Connor quickly tried to amend with a frustrated growl. He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to think of anything but the fire pouring over buildings and homes like molten death. He didn't want to remember the heat or the pain or the fear. It was too much. It made him remember his mother, with startling clarity, reaching out to him as the flames melted the flesh from her bones.

"As I recall," Haytham started slowly, voice quavering with restrained anger, "there was a young man who tore through hundreds of men to bring my Order down. They were not evil or misled. Many of them had families and friends. Many of them were outsourced—poor, starving civilians looking for a bit of spare coin. But they were all murdered purely due to their association."

"They were not the same as innocent civilians."

"No, but you killed them nonetheless," Haytham's voice was cold and firm.

Connor rubbed his temples and refused to look at the campfire. "What is your point, father?" he asked, exasperated.

"Bear with me, Boy," Haytham continued solemnly. "That young man took everything, piece by piece, from me. Most notably, my comrades—friends whom I had fought alongside for years—were slaughtered like pigs. And I thought it my fault. How could it not be? Not only had I literally planted the seed which the killer grew, but I failed to protect my closest allies. I failed as a leader.

"But after some time, I realized that, while I did bear some responsibility, wallowing in guilt wouldn't bring them back. I didn't want retribution like I did with Reginald Birch—I had already learned how unfulfilling vengeance was. I just wanted to end the slaughter."

"But you only perpetuated more violence," Connor interjected.

Haytham smiled wryly. "Yes, and we saw how that ended," Haytham shook his head bitterly. "Your guilt doesn't respond to sympathy, but it may be quelled by your duty. As a leader, it's your responsibility to fight the enemies that stalk your men and the nearest civilians."

"I already know that!" Connor snapped. "What do you think I am doing by hunting down the Neo Templar Grandmaster!?"

"I'm not debating whether or not you're actively pushing against the threat. When I fought you in Fort George, I did so by myself. I sent Charles and all of my most important men far away. My point is, Connor, is that I lost because I was _alone_," Haytham caught his son's dark eyes meaningfully. "You will not be.

"You don't have to fight these Neo Templars single-handedly, and likewise, you don't have to bear the guilt alone," Haytham said, his face scrunching slightly as if he had eaten something unpleasant. The elder man clearly wasn't accustomed to such…emotional things like this.

Connor's heart swelled with something unfamiliar and he fought the urge to scoot closer to his father.

"When we fought at Fort George, you did not expect to win, did you?" Connor asked slowly. Connor had confiscated Haytham's journals from Charles Lee's luggage just days before he had laid Lee to rest. He had paid a hefty coin to have them smuggled away and while Connor was been recovering on the Homestead, he spent too many nights reading and re-reading his father's thoughts and exploits. There had been dozens of journals. They had painted two very different pictures of the same man. Most of them had been non-consequential—just the day-to-day accounts of a normal fellow. But there were entries scattered about regarding Haytham's quest for revenge for his family's upheaval and brief, vague introspection on Templar schemes.

But strangely, Haytham had dated his journals and had written the equivalent of a final message at the end. Perhaps, subconsciously or purposefully, he had intended for Connor to survive and read them.

"You could have killed me, Father. You had the opportunity. So why did you not?" Connor pressed again.

Haytham didn't answer immediately. After a moment, he gave a noncommittal shrug. "Perhaps for the same reason I couldn't see you hanged."

Connor felt a small smile tug his lips. The expression felt so foreign after the tragedy of the Homestead. "I am happy that you did not die, Father. Although our reunion has not been…ideal, I would not wish it away."

When Connor had understood that Haytham was still alive nearly a year ago, he had been relieved. It had been a second chance for Haytham to see the error of his ways. It had been a second chance to save his father. But Connor thought differently now.

He understood that Haytham didn't need to be saved.

* * *

**May 1, 1785**

Connor didn't know _how_ he knew the route. The information simply appeared in his head and hovered at the edges of his consciousness as if he had been there many times before. It felt like a familiar memory, but Connor could firmly say that he had no reason to feel such nostalgia.

Haytham had told him that the amulet had that power. It could drop information into a person's head as easily as one drops a book on a desk. But Connor was certain that he didn't use the amulet the way that Haytham had. Haytham had given a part of himself to the relic in exchange for information on the Pieces of Eden decades ago. Connor had merely been supplied the location of this strange abode by something that might have been a part of Charles Lee. He considered using the amulet again to verify his theory, but activating the relic would give their position away to the Neo Templars. They couldn't even touch Castor bare handed without the Piece of Eden attempting to connect to its twin, much less could they risk awakening the core. Connor could only hope that the Charles Lee that saved him was an ally and not a devious illusion.

Within a few miles of their destination, Connor spotted fresh tracks through the tall grasses. They had been made by horses, not a week prior. He and Haytham both continued cautiously. Within a half mile, they tied up their horses and finished their trek by foot whilst hiding in trees and bushes. Soon, they came upon a quaint cabin.

It was too nice to be called a shack, but it was definitely too neglected to be a house. People hadn't lived there in a long time, by the looks of the sagging roof and the overgrown bushes. But now, there were apparently some visitors. Two sheets hung on a line strung between some branches. They had been freshly washed in the nearby river and strung up to dry.

Connor thought that he must have made some mistake, but the images in his head that paraded as memories stated otherwise. There was SUPPOSED to be two sheets outside. The cabin was SUPPOSED to be a bit run down and unused. There were SUPPOSED to be a couple of horses grazing out back. His mind told him that it was completely normal.

He looked to Haytham, shrugged, and beckoned the elder man to accompany him.

"You're honestly going to just walk up to the door and knock?" Haytham hissed.

Connor nodded and did just that. He heard movement from inside and hoped that the Not-Charles hadn't steered him wrong. Haytham screwed up his eyes a little, and then deadpanned spectacularly.

"I would stand aside if I were you," Haytham said blandly as he just sidestepped away from the door jamb. Connor was about to ask why when the door flung open and a rifle barrel was pointed inches from his nose.

Connor jerked backwards and held his hands open-palmed by his head.

"Molly," Haytham regarded.

The rifle barrel swung away from Connor, briefly pointed at Haytham, and then finally lowered.

"Well hell. I thought she was mad," the middle aged Native woman said. "It really is you, Haytham."

"In the flesh," he offered stiffly.

Connor relaxed briefly, but his brow furrowed. How did Haytham know this woman? Connor had never met her! But when he used his Eagle Vision, she didn't glow red. She wasn't a Templar, but then who was she that she would know his father?

Another woman approached the doorway as well. She was shorter and stonier, but the braids and beads in her hair told Connor plenty. She was a Mohawk woman, also middle aged, and probably came from good standing considering her posture, tone, and colonial dress.

"Molly, let them in," she said icily.

"I did not know we were expected," Connor exchanged glances with Haytham.

The woman motioned them inside. "And I didn't know he was capable of telling the truth."

Haytham and Connor both entered warily. The inside of the cabin had been recently cleaned, but he could still see cobwebs clinging stubbornly to the upper rafters. A pot of soup simmered above a fire in the hearth. There were a few packs of luggage in the corner, and a bucket of water on one of two tables. Although these women had arrived before Connor and Haytham, they hadn't been in the cabin for more than a few days. Connor didn't sense any danger. Haytham glanced around and introduced the Assassin to the two women.

"Connor, this is Molly Brant. She's Joseph Brant's elder sister, and widow of William Johnson," Haytham motioned. "Molly, this is my son, Connor."

Molly boldly shook Connor's hand and spoke to him in Mohawk. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Connor. I didn't know that Haytham had a son! Sorry about the rifle to your face; can't be too careful anymore."

Connor only awkwardly shook the woman's hand because she seized it before he could pull away. He didn't know what to think of her. She was overly brash already and although she spoke Mohawk, her clothes appeared expensive and Colonial. Her smile was wide and warm, but there was a cold deception lurking under the surface.

"I spoke to Joseph after that horrible debacle at Fort Stanwix last fall. You two saved his life and I can't thank you enough," Molly added.

Connor nodded, finally stealing his hand back from the woman.

"Ah, and this is….Charles' widow," Haytham motioned to the other Native woman awkwardly. She must have gone by her Mohawk name, because Haytham only displayed such uncertainty when he couldn't pronounce such things.

"Call me Saro," she offered coldly.

Connor raised an eyebrow. 'Saro' was the Mohawk name for 'Charles'. "That is not your real name," he said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "And 'Connor' is not yours." When Connor opened his mouth to offer his given name, Saro raised a hand to cut him off. "I don't want to know. I don't know what my late husband had gotten into and I want as little part in it as possible. I won't give you my real name and I won't offer any more information than I deem necessary."

Connor nodded slowly, but he didn't press. He was already feeling awkward enough by being in the presence of two widows of men he had killed. He only hoped that they didn't know that it had been his blade to slay their husbands. "It is…interesting to meet you both, Mrs. Brant and Mrs. Saro. How were you expecting our arrival?"

Molly propped up her rifle by the front door and pulled up chairs. "Saro said you'd be arriving; either both of you would be here in the first week of May, or just you, Connor, would be arrive in the last week of April."

"Who told you this?"

"Charles Lee himself," Molly shrugged. "Just before the war ended, Saro's clan chased her out of her village because of her husband's ill-intended politics. She and the twins moved up to Carleton Island with me. But then Charles just appeared out of the blue one day, all wild-eyed and gibbering nonsense. I wasn't there at the time—was working on some important trades—but Saro was. He apparently told her that you would be coming to this cabin at the appointed dates."

Saro shot Molly a venomous glare cold enough to cease any man's tongue. But Molly just waved it off and continued. "He apparently kept spouting some drivel about the end of the world, and how apparently only you two can stop it. I thought that Charles had just broken since he had been hiding away for so long after his discharge, but Saro insisted that we heed his wishes. She said that he mentioned something about a prophecy. And frankly, even if I hadn't demanded to come along, she would've made this journey on her own."

Saro straightened her back. "I never saw much of my husband when he was alive. We were primarily married in name alone. But while Charles may not have been a decent father or a loyal husband, he was still MY husband. When he came to me that day and told me that the Two Headed Serpent Prophecy was real, I felt obliged to circumvent it. I couldn't risk his warning becoming truth and do nothing. Even if you hadn't arrived, I would've fulfilled my role as wife and widow and a Mohawk to come here. If I could do this so that his spirit may rest in peace and to help my people, then I will. But you are here. You have come on the appointed days as expected. How? Did Charles speak to you as well?"

"It is…complicated. I am certain any explanation would sound short of sane," Connor frowned. "What is the Serpent Prophecy?"

Haytham conveniently chose the moment to fetch the horses while Saro relayed the ancient story to Connor.

According to the prophecy, long before settlers had sailed across the ocean, there was a Mohawk fisher boy who caught a silver and gold, two-headed snake. It was weak and sickly, but mesmerizingly beautiful. He had taken it back to his village and pleaded with his elders to keep it. They reluctantly agreed and the boy cared for the snake. It first ate bugs, but as it grew, it needed more food to survive. It soon needed fish, then rabbits, then boar, then goats, and then bison to fill its belly. Before long, it outgrew its cage and broke free. The two-headed serpent devoured children of the village before tearing across the earth. It ate through mountains and it drank the rivers. It ripped apart the trees and it killed animals without consuming the corpses. It polluted the soil and the water and the air. Then it moved to the sky, where it ate the clouds and the stars and the sun and the moon before turning back down to Kanien'kehá:ka. But upon rearing back from whence it came, the serpent quarreled and tried to eat itself. In the chaos, it began to destroy what was left of the world until a young boy stepped forward. He had a willow bow that was strung with the hair of the clan mothers and an arrow that was tipped in white flint. The boy slew the two-headed serpent. Once the beast was felled, he climbed on top of the corpse's belly and slit it open. Everything that the serpent had devoured spilled out and was restored to their natural places in the world.

Connor vaguely recalled the prophecy. He had flashes of memories of Oiá:ner cradling him after particularly violent nightmares. But they had only been stories! Part of him felt guilty that he couldn't believe such a prophecy actually existed.

Yet at the same time, it made sense. Although Connor didn't believe that a mile-long two headed serpent would appear any time soon, he did believe that maybe—just maybe—the prophecy might have been referring to the Pieces of Eden.

The amulet's core burned against his hip.

Connor remembered the Mohawk boy on the White Plane. He had been carrying a net filled with dead fish and a two headed snake had slithered across his face, like a cobra that had made its nest in a sun-bleached skull.

He inwardly shuddered.

Thankfully, Haytham finally returned. Saro was clenching and unclenching her fingers with anxiety and her lips were thin and pale with resolve. She politely excused herself to dig through the luggage and pulled forth a bundle that was wrapped in canvas several times and tied off with multiple ropes and twines.

She set it out on the table for Haytham and Connor and cut the binding away. "Charles left this with me. He said that you would need it when you arrived. He said that it would help you."

As she finished pulling the canvas sheets away, Haytham gave a sharp intake of breath. Connor glanced first at him, and then the thing on the table.

It was a journal. The binding was sloppy, but secure, and the cover was slashed and charred as if it had been repeatedly stabbed and then thrown into a fire. But despite the defacement, Connor recognized it. The journal was very similar to many other ones that Haytham had used in his lifetime. Connor glanced again at his father, who had become rather pale in a startling few seconds.

"Saro, help me check the snares," Molly suggested. The other woman nodded in agreement and they both left.

Haytham finally let out the breath he must have been holding. Connor reached out to the journal, but his father snatched his wrist away.

"What is it, Father?" Connor asked.

Haytham frowned, released his son's wrist, and tried to visibly calm himself. "It's a journal. Specifically, it's one of my old journals. More specifically yet, it's a journal that I had charged Charles with destroying."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Theoretically, no."

"Last year, the Neo Templars were after your journal, but you said that you only made a fake copy of it to lure them out of hiding. Is this the REAL journal? Does it hold the locations of the Pieces of Eden?"

"Theoretically, yes."

Connor rolled his eyes and scooped the journal up. Haytham made an indignant squawk of a noise, but Connor already flipped the pages open. His discovery was entirely unfulfilling. He wrinkled his nose a little at it.

There were some journal entries that his father had made decades ago. They seemed normal enough, even though he could barely read the letters under the char that clung to the pages. It looked like Charles had tried to burn the journal, but for some reason, the deed was undone. Connor kept flipping through the pages until he reached something odd.

In the middle of the journal, the pages were blank and completely unmarred. He flipped them back and forth. The flames should have charred these pages like everything else, and yet there was nothing. Even the pen marks from the page above had not been superimposed to the pages below.

Connor flipped back and forth a few more times before he noticed that Haytham was rummaging in his pockets for something.

Haytham pulled out the amulet ring. The core thrummed in Connor's pocket.

"He must have tried to destroy the journal as I ordered, but for some reason, he was unable to physically mar these pages," Haytham said. He held up the amulet ring. Realization dawned on Connor. The amulet was a key.

Practically holding his breath again, Haytham put the key against the page. The amulet glowed an unearthly blue and letters began forming in the center of the ring as if it were a lens. As Haytham dragged it across the page, hidden letters that had previously been concealed shimmered in the firelight. They were written on top of what appeared to be a map, but the map was entirely distorted by the message, making it nearly unreadable.

_Forgive me, Master Kenway. I wasn't able to destroy the journal as requested. This is the next best thing I can do._

_I couldn't erase your maps, so I overwrote them. Even so, they must be destroyed. You already know how to do that, Sir._

_The Amulet is the key._

Connor held up the amulet core to the firelight. It was pulsing in his hand and he had a terrifying realization that he didn't remember taking it out of the pouch. He didn't recall rolling it between his fingers or when the whispers began reassuring him that it was okay. Everything was alright. He just needed to join the amulet halves and then he would be able to read Charles' message.

Haytham glanced at Connor, his own hand struggling as it slowly lifted the amulet ring from the paper. It gravitated towards the core, slowly and jerkily, as Haytham fought against it. But they were too close and too lost in the journal already.

The amulet pieces clicked together and whirred to life.

They were in the White Plane again.

Connor looked at himself and he could see flashes of his body. Like before, it slowly came into creation and he was solid. But Haytham wasn't the same. Connor could see bits of skin and then clothing and then weapons and boots and part of a hat and something that might have been his nose, but it was all shifting too much to actually get a clear picture.

_"Concentrate!"_ Haytham roared, his voice a fragmented echo.

Connor jerked in surprise. The last time he had been in the Amulet, he had to give himself a body with his mind. This time, Haytham had thought Connor's body into existence and Connor needed to reciprocate. He concentrated on the hard curves of his father's calves and thighs. He thought about the planes of his chest, and his dexterous calloused fingers, and the smell of his hair. He remembered what it felt like to have his jacket spread out beneath him like a navy blanket.

Haytham's body was created and clothed by Connor's mind.

"Tch, took you long enough," Haytham snorted, snark hiding the wild fear in his eyes.

"We are inside the amulet," Connor stated. Haytham nodded, his lips bloodless.

Connor could feel his father's dread. Even though Connor was also wary of this situation, he knew that the fear wasn't his own. If he concentrated, he could feel Haytham's thoughts on the edges of his mind. He could feel the ice cold terror beginning to drip down his spine. But he could also feel the fiery pride and determination to complete the mission. He could feel the will to fight and protect swell in his heart like a lion's roar.

If he concentrated harder, he could see memories shared between them in the past few days, from his father's eyes.

"Stop that," Haytham snapped.

Connor smiled. "Can you feel what I am also feeling?" he asked.

Haytham rolled his eyes. They had more important things to worry about.

Then, his father pointed at something. It was a figure, something like a person. It flickered in and out of sight, each time considerably nearer than before. Once it was in range, Connor breathed a short sigh of relief. It was Charles Lee.

The Not-Charles calmly walked up to them and held his arms at his side. He seemed torn between throwing himself at Haytham and attacking Connor, yet not truly seeing either of them.

"Master Kenway, I've some news for you," Charles said.

Haytham reached out cautiously to touch the Not-Charles, as if he was afraid of his hand plowing a hole through the thing's chest. "Charles?" he asked. Connor felt Haytham's sudden pang of longing and loneliness and regret.

The other Templar didn't notice the hand reaching for him. It was a message, just like last time. The Not-Charles couldn't respond in time with Haytham's presence. "Master Kenway, as I'm sure you've noticed, your life is in danger.

"They found your journals before the Assassins could. They consider your actions against the late Grandmaster Birch and your fraternization with your son as high treason. Because of that, they're trying to raise a coup to oust me as your successor. Melville Badgley is currently the favorite to succeed me, and if what the amulet tells me is true, then he WILL become the next Grandmaster and you WILL end his life with ease. But he was…will be…IS not acting alone, Haytham. He's merely a pawn in a more devious plot."

At this point, Charles looked uncomfortably over his shoulder, as if he was expecting someone behind him. Nervously, he turned back to Haytham's direction.

"I-I don't know quite how to put this, Sir. But the man after your life now, the one who threatens the entire world, is someone who shouldn't be alive. He should be old. He should be dead. He should have rotted like the cavity of filth that he is. But he didn't.

He found a Piece of Eden, Haytham.

Harold Smith is alive and he wants to rule the world."

* * *

**Crimmy Comments:** Fun fact—until last night, the Grandmaster that succeeded Charles (yanno, the one that Haytham killed back in chapter 8) was named 'Fuckface' because I couldn't be bothered to properly name him. And now I kinda wish I had named him sooner because 'Melville Badgley' is like, the best name ever.


	24. Chapter 23

**Crimmy Comments: Okay, first of all, I'm really, really, terribly sorry for not posting a chapter last week. Personal life stuff came up, accompanied by some ongoing health problems gone awry. But I'll be okay and everything, I just wasn't in a mental position to concentrate on writing tough scenes last week. Charles makes me feels so hard that I couldn't handle it on top of my own issues.**

**I did post about it vaguely on my Tumblr (crimsonenigma is my username), but I failed to communicate the temporary hiatus through AO3 or FF. Again, I deeply apologize for this. I should've found a way to tell you guys what was going on sooner, but I just...couldn't. I kept telling myself that I'd get the chapter done tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow again. By then, it was too late to give any sort of timely warning, and I was too chicken to let you guys know after the fact. So I sincerely hope that no one's too mad at me, and I hope that you guys continue reading with me!**

**Also, this chapter still isn't technically done, but I got called into work on my day off today. In fact, I'm currently at work while posting this, because my co-worker is super awesome with me hopping on my laptop between customers. I'll finish up the scenes in a bonus chapter for Monday. It probably won't be as long as a normal chapter, but it'll be a little something to hopefully make up for my unexplained absence.**

**Okay, now THAT'S off my chest, onto chapter related notes! This chapter vaguely breezes over some stuff that happened in HWMBOH for those of you who haven't read that fic. I hope it'll come off well, but basically, this is riddled with flashbacks as seen through the Amulet's database.**

**And Fun Fact #4831: At the end of the ToKW dlc, you witness an illusion of a man trying to convince Washington to become a king without the Apple. For my purposes, that was an illusion that Harold Smith made with the Dioscuri relic because he was still trying to manipulate Washington.**

* * *

"Harold Smith is alive and he wants to rule the world."

Connor felt a wave of cold dread wash through his stomach, freezing his limbs as if they were made of ice. Nausea twisted his stomach. He felt flashes of fear—the fear of pain and humiliation—ignite his mind. But it was all overshadowed by an endless shame.

There was voice in his mind, one that wasn't his. _'Impossible,' _it said.

Connor shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. None of these were his feelings. The terror didn't belong to him because he didn't have anything to be afraid of. The revelation that the Not-Charles spoke of was just information and nothing more. This 'Harold Smith' meant nothing.

But a glance to Haytham's direction revealed the source of the turmoil. Haytham was pale and rigid, his fists clenched so tight that Connor was surprised his nails didn't split the skin.

Charles' eyebrows twitched in what might've been sympathy before he turned to Connor. Though he gazed in the general direction, Connor knew that this Charles couldn't see him. "While there is a high probability that Haytham is here, there is also the chance that he died during your exploits across the Frontier," he said. "The amulet has shown me possibilities—things that could have been. It shows me probabilities and chances. It's shown me the path of a future that COULD happen, as numbers and codes, of zeros and ones. For your sake, Assassin, I pray that Haytham stands by your side."

Connor felt another emotion stir inside of him. It wasn't his or Haytham's this time. It was Charles'. He felt Charles' anger and sorrow and regret and fear. He felt his longing. And Connor knew that, even though this Charles didn't forgive him, he was helping Connor for the sake of something larger than their rivalry.

"Don't close your eyes," Charles said, canting his head almost mockingly to the side. "It can't help you here."

Connor only had time to frown before he felt his mind swim and burn. Then, he wasn't on the White Plane anymore.

Connor was in a dingy inn. His head swooned with vertigo and he tried to clench his eyes shut against the pain. But it didn't help. He could still see through them, as if his eyelids had been peeled like a ripe orange. Haytham was next to him, rigid and tense, as they watched the scene; Charles and another Haytham—both considerably younger—harassed an injured man.

Connor frowned and glanced between the two Haythams. One was beside him, hair grey and face gaunt. Real. The other wavered almost like a mirage. Not real.

The men in the inn didn't seem to notice Connor and his father. The scene wasn't real, just like the Not-Charles. But what was it? Was it an illusion like Castor and Pollux? Was it a convenient fabrication like George Washington's Apple?

"You are little more than a **shit stain** of a man, much less a Templar," the Not-Haytham spat venomously. His victim was an obese, balding man with thin blond hair and his face grotesquely beaten. Fresh stiches on his cheek bulged as Haytham squeezed the man's jaw mercilessly, with naught but ice in his veins. "You are no longer welcome in my territory. You are exiled, Harold Smith."

It was a memory.

Connor's eyebrows furrowed and then rose as he looked to his stricken father.

Haytham—the real one—swallowed thickly and clasped his hands behind his back. "Harold Smith was… one of Reginald Birch's closest associates," he explained carefully and numbly. "I had destroyed the Assassins' regime in the Colonies and needed assistance controlling the Spanish territories. The British Rite sent me that sack of shit. He was a vile criminal, but not one beyond my use. I exiled him rather than slaying him."

Connor could feel that there was something else that Haytham was withholding, but he didn't get the chance to press the issue. The scene wavered and disappeared in a flash of white. Connor tried again to futilely cover his eyes, but he could see through his hands and fingers nonetheless.

A small campfire burned brightly as Haytham and his mother lay outside of a tent in the wilderness. The air was warm but the wind was crisp.

Connor's heart leapt in his throat and he found it difficult to swallow. Despite himself, he reached towards the image of his mother as she lay, oblivious, by Haytham's side. She told him about the Two-Headed Serpent prophecy as they stared to the stars.

Connor could feel the sadness thrumming against his skin like a thunderstorm. At least this longing wasn't just Haytham's. It was taking all of the Assassin's willpower to keep from surging forward and capturing his mother in a fierce embrace. He silently prayed that he wouldn't have to see her die again as he had with George Washington's Apple.

"The amulet is dangerous. What you have there, that ring, it is only one piece," Ziio sat up.

"When the two pieces are united, it only creates havoc and fear," she pulled one of her knees to her chest, her voice falling between accusation and hope. "You've brought this cursed relic back to our land. Now, we might all be doomed."

The scene changed again. The night fell away, shattered like a broken mirror, and the trees withered. A plantation manor was built where there had been dirt and the tent cracked and caved in as if the ground was sucking it into the bedrock.

Not-Haytham was outside, walking in crisp cool sunshine in his plantation courtyard. A small marble rolled into his boot and tapped against him until it got his attention. The Not-Haytham picked up the small black ball and inspected it carefully. Connor felt his gut wrench. It was the marble. Haytham made the amulet whole.

Then, they were in the Grandmaster's study. Haytham poured over the relic feverishly. When it was activated, glowing blue lines projected across the wall, promising comfort and salvation. It was a map. Haytham scribbled over the pages of his journals, copying down notes and completing the detailed landmasses with a focus fit for a madman. The ink was glowing the same color as the light. The amulet spoke to Haytham in feelings, reassuring the Grandmaster that collecting the relics was his duty. It told him that he could save people from themselves. It told him he could save the world.

Connor blinked at the memory. The scene changed, but the setting was the same. They were still in the Grandmaster's study as the illusory Charles yelled at Haytham from beneath the Grandmaster's weight.

"YOU'RE MAD! Look what the relic has done to you!" Although the memory of Charles didn't fight physically, Connor could feel the internal war. The amulet was trying to control both of them, and it was succeeding. Only Charles' stubborn rage kept him half-lucid.

"I can't save you from yourself, but _I can save the rest of the world from you_," Charles breathed and Connor felt the will to kill.

He watched as the Not-Haytham, eyes glowing gold and blue, ripped the pieces of the amulet apart with a roar of fury and collapsed. Charles scrabbled upright and took the core of the amulet. He rode to the docks and planted it in merchandise headed for China.

The marble swore to return to Charles.

The Templar sneered, squashing the terror like a bug under his heel.

Connor could feel the real Haytham's embarrassment at witnessing the scenes. What type of man succumbed to a mere necklace!? What kind of Grandmaster would be willing to lose his self to a foreign artifact so deeply that he would jeopardize the very world he sought to control? Although Connor hadn't yet formed his own opinion, he could feel Haytham's self-disgust.

_'That's enough, Charles,'_ he demanded lowly, his tone calm and his demeanor betraying nothing.

_'My apologies, sir, but I cannot stop what is already in motion,'_ the Not-Charles said, his words echoing in Connor's mind rather than through his ears. They didn't have a choice in the matter anymore.

The plantation manor fragmented like a cracked rock. The walls split and pushed back, further and further into the distance as the air became stagnant and chill. The moonlight flickered like a dying candle and washed them in darkness. Then, a spark as a lantern glowed to life. Warm light bounced off of the walls of the underground room. Connor recognized it immediately. It was the same room that Haytham revealed beneath Fort Stanwix.

The Not-Haytham placed a softly glowing golden orb in a chest, took one last glance, and snapped the lid shut. He secured two padlocks on the clasp and stepped back.

"I still have half a mind to destroy the bloody thing," Charles grumbled, swinging the lantern in the direction of the Apple.

Haytham shook his head. It took a relic to destroy a relic, and until he had acquired another then there was no hope to break the Apple. "It may benefit us some day."

"And if it falls into the hands of our enemies instead? While this bunker is secure, Haytham, we shouldn't tempt fate."

"It will be fine, Charles. Only a man with a bloodline like mine will be able to locate this chamber," Haytham was so certain that no one would find the Apple. It was safe, locked in a location that only someone with Eagle Eyes could find.

The Not-Haytham and Not-Charles disappeared in a heartbeat. Dust gathered in the corners of the chamber and clung to the chest as if a giant had sneezed. Years had passed. Connor could feel the information poured into his mind. It was 1781. Then, the door was opening again for the first time in over a decade, only this time, strangers entered.

"Ha, I knew he hid the Apple here! I KNEW it!" a blond man bellowed victoriously. He was well-dressed and middle aged, and while wrinkles hadn't yet claimed his face, there was a brutal scar running down the side of his cheek. His body was firm, and his shoulders square enough to be mistaken for a man half his age. When he grinned, he still had all of white, immaculate teeth. Connor had a name for him. This was Harold Smith.

Connor mentally reeled and he felt Haytham's strangled intake of breath. That was impossible! Connor had seen what Harold Smith looked like, and this man couldn't be him! Smith was easily ten years Haytham's senior! He had a mouth of rotten teeth and his face had been pockmarked and horrible! His hair had been thinning and as dry as straw!

Yet Connor's instinct told him that it wasn't a mistake. This man was, somehow and inexplicably, Harold Smith.

He and his compatriot shoved a lithe teenage boy forward. The boy stumbled and nearly collapsed from fear. His face was tearstained and his wrists were bound.

"I-I helped you find your treasure," the boy stuttered. "Now let me go and leave my family alone!"

"Not yet, Princess. You've gotta get us out of here wif them fancy eyes, too. Who knows if that cock-knocker set up some booby traps. And you wouldn't want anything to happen to us, would you?" Smith's voice was sickly sweet as he grinned down at the boy. "You've already seen what I can do, Princess. Do you really wanna put your mum and sissy in danger because you've gotten cold feet? You know what I'll do to them, and ain't no booby trap gonna stop me."

The boy shuddered and clenched his eyes shut. He nodded and scrambled upright. They broke the locks and took the Apple from the chest. Smith's comrade packed the tunnel with explosives upon their exit.

The kegs exploded. Light blinded Connor. A gunshot echoed through the open air.

Smith and his mercenary were outside, pistol smoking, as the boy lay dead in the grass. His skull was scatted across the bushes. Connor almost shouted a protest, but he knew that they couldn't hear him.

"Get the boys and go back to town. Tell his mum and sis that he betrayed them and ran away," Harold Smith put his gun back into its holster, the same sick grin twisted on his lips. "Tear them apart. Fuck them until they're raw and bleedin' and then burn 'em alive. I wanna hear their screams clear from the river."

The Templar nodded obediently. "And after they've paid for his crime, Master Smith?"

Harold clutched the Apple with thick, meaty fingers. He sighed with almost contentment before tossing it into a pouch and shoving it at his comrade.

"You know what to do. Make sure it falls into that fool's hands. At this rate that bumbling idiot, Washington, will be given military supremacy. By then, he'll already be a piglet eating out of our pockets. The Apple will control him. WE will control him."

"Would you like me to mislead the Assassins and Grandmaster Kenway?"

Smith's eyes flashed dangerously at the mention of Haytham's name. The other Templar flinched and shrank away, apology stammering on his tongue. Smith's lip curled with disgust before that familiar smirk twitched across his face.

"No. The Assassins are focused on pickin' apart that _bastard_ like a corpse in the sun and the Colonial Rite is runnin' around like a rooster with its cock hangin' out. By the time they realize anything's off, we'll have already sunk our teeth in and ripped them apart from the inside."

Connor shuddered with revulsion. So that was how George Washington fell into possession of the Apple of Eden. It had been a set up. Harold Smith had paid someone to purposefully be captured in Yorktown just to tempt the general. And it had worked. Washington had fallen into the power of the Apple; he had nearly been consumed by greed and corruption, and it was all at the behest of the Templars. He narrowly avoided becoming another pawn, only because Connor managed to break through the Apple's manipulation to make Washington see sense. Connor didn't want to imagine the newly birthed America under Harold Smith's control. The concept alone was unsettling.

The scene shifted again. Harold Smith and his henchman evaporated to nothingness and walls sprouted from the ground. They were in a Templar safehouse and Charles was hunched over his desk, his head in his hands and his eyes lost in thought. He held a quill in his hand, but the ink had long since dried on the nib and the page before him was still blank. This Charles was clearly distressed. His receding hair was tangled and matted, as if he had been wrenching at it, and the bags under his eyes were puffy and dark. A knock at the door startled him.

"G-Get in here!" he snarled weakly. He focused on keeping his hands from shaking. Worry and fear crawled through Connor's veins. He could feel Charles' trepidation. He could feel the steely terror.

"Report," Charles ordered.

"Master Lee, it's as we feared," the Templar closed the door behind him and offered a small bow of respect. "We were unable to locate any of Grandmaster Kenway's remains. The Assassins were victorious."

Charles cursed and slammed his fist on the table. "Unacceptable! He wouldn't die! He couldn't lose! It's been a damned week since the attack on Fort George and you're going to tell me that you couldn't find even a body!? Not even desecrated remains!?"

Connor felt Charles' sorrow so acutely that it was nearly overwhelming. Charles didn't want to believe it. Rage boiled in his gut, churning alongside the mourning, as he swept the items from his desk in one violent motion.

"S-sir, there is more," the Templar shook at the outburst, rattled to the bone. "Someone has been speaking out against you and I've reason to believe it's one of our Brothers."

Charles' nostrils flared and he braced his hands on the desk to keep his shoulders from shaking. "Do tell," he growled like a feral dog.

"Th-they're calling meetings in secret, and I hear that they're slandering late Grandmaster Kenway's reputation. They're branding him a traitor. Sir, I think they've got it out for you, but I don't know why our Brethren would do this."

"Get me a location and time," Charles demanded after a moment's consideration. His back shook with contained rage. He would make them regret speaking of Haytham in such a cowardly manner.

The room spun like a top. Colors blended together and Connor would've been sick if he had a corporeal stomach. But as it was, he could only watch as his environment finally slowed down again. They were in a church, and Charles burst through the door with a small regiment of Templars in his wake. He demanded that the meeting be broken up and sent the patrons on their way. It wasn't until the chapel was clear that he turned to the two men responsible for the rally.

His face darkened to an outraged puce as he realized that one of the men was Harold Smith. Disbelief flowed in his veins alongside the ice. Harold Smith didn't look like that. Charles convinced himself that it must be a son of Harold or some other fellow with a similar name. Smith grinned at Charles.

"Oh no, time has just been kind to me, Grandmaster Lee," Smith said as he stroked the scar on his cheek.

Melville Badgley, a heavy man with tiny piggy eyes and feet too small for his girth, harrumphed at Charles. Even without saying anything, Charles knew that this man was a pawn for Smith. Melville Badgley had the social standing and money to create a problem. The man had lived in Europe through the duration of the wars. Even though he probably didn't know the first thing about being a Grandmaster to an infant country, he was a fresh face that appealed to the war-fatigued pocketbooks of the Order.

"You've no right to slander Grandmaster Kenway's name!" Charles snarled.

"We have proof!" Harold crowed. "The idiot wrote his follies in his journals, and now you're surprised that we're second-guessing the quality of his regime? Why do you think he appointed you Grandmaster? He wants to keep this land weak and under the influence of Assassins!" Harold Smith spat.

Charles drew his sword without warning and ran Harold Smith through. The man gurgled and choked as his organs were punctured. Melville Badgley screamed like a woman and backed away.

But Harold Smith did not die. He grinned through the pain, blood dribbling down his youthful lips, and grasped the blade in the palm of his hand. Charles watched in horror as he pulled the sword from his gut, his palms dripping with blood, and simply wrenched the weapon from Charles' shocked grasp and threw it aside.

Charles' eyes widened in horror as the lacerations on Harold Smith's hands heal before him.

"You see, there is a better future in store for us," Smith wiped the blood on his ruined waistcoat. His palms were perfectly unmarred and his stomach was once again whole. "We know that your master had one more journal—one that supposedly logged the locations of the Weapons of Eden. You should be a good dog and give it to us. If you don't, well…" he smirked. "It's only a matter of time. Either you give it to me willingly, or else I'll pry it from your lifeless corpse."

The scene melted like a wax candle in the sun and a fresh scene bubbled from the darkness like a vat of boiling fat.

Charles had followed Harold Smith to an inn in the Colonies. It was well protected, but the guards were nothing that a heavy purse or a blade to the throat couldn't buy. Charles had been Haytham's prized student. Even though he was never as stealthy as Assassins, the newly appointed Grandmaster snuck through the inn unnoticed.

Charles knew that he wasn't appealing as a Grandmaster to the higher Order in Britain. He knew that they would agree that new blood would be better suited for the Colonies. It was only a matter of time before Melville Badgley was appointed in his place. But the least he could do would be to confiscate Haytham's journals. They were hard evidence. They were proof that Haytham was a traitor.

Charles couldn't allow his friend's memory to be discredited anymore.

He piled all of Haytham's journals into a chest and threw it out of the window for the mercenaries he paid to take it away.

Harold Smith caught him in the act. But Charles didn't waste any time unloading a bullet to the monster's chest. Hissing with white-hot fury, Charles was upon the other as soon as his body hit the floor. He lost count of how many times he stabbed Harold Smith's chest, and only prayed that the monster might die this time.

Connor blinked, riveted in horror. They were in the Templar safehouse again.

Charles was burning the journal. It was the map journal, the one that Harold Smith coveted. The flames danced in the hearth, casting eerie shadows across the room. The rest of Haytham's journals sat in the chest nestled in the corner. Charles thought about burning them, too, but he couldn't. Every time he tried to throw one into the fire, some wave of sorrow and sentimentality shook his sense. He couldn't do it. All he had left of Haytham were his journals and that infernal amulet.

Charles poked the crackling logs with the iron rod. The journal was blackened and charred, but it wasn't yet ash. He waited. And waited. And even after the fire went out and the logs flickered with the last of the embers, the journal was still whole. Charles felt sick.

The world around them shrank as if it was receding into the distance only to be replaced with Charles' personal quarters in some other safehouse.

The Assassins wanted his blood. The Mentor hadn't died during the attack on Fort George. With a heavy heart, Charles finally accepted that Haytham had died. And now, Haytham's son still sought his ruin. Perhaps worse yet, Harold Smith was still alive as well and he hunted Charles like a coyote. Charles could practically feel the quicksand up to his neck. He was going to die, by one blade or the other. He laughed bitterly, without any warmth or humor. It was only a matter of time now.

But he didn't want to die. He wanted to continue Haytham's legacy as Grandmaster of the Colonies. He wanted to try and plot a way to defeat the Assassins before their influence became all-consuming. He had so much work to do, but so few resources to do it.

Charles hadn't been sleeping well. Sometimes, after a night of fitful tossing and turning, he would find clumps of his hair on the pillow. He didn't have much of an appetite and he had noticeably lost weight. Even the cooked fish in front of him hardly seemed appetizing. But what would Haytham say? He would lecture him to take care of himself and to keep his chin high.

Charles took a bite of his fish, hardly noticing the magnificent flavor. Everything was so bland nowadays. And to make matters worse, he felt oddly warm even though it was drizzling outside. Perhaps he was coming down with a fever. That would be his misfortune.

His chest was warm.

The amulet pulsed against his bare skin.

Charles took another thoughtful bite as he tried to keep the depression at bay. He bit down on something hard and cursed wildly. Half-chewed flakes of fish stuck in his moustache as he cradled his mouth and spit out the thing that surely chipped his tooth.

Charles nearly choked on the rest of the food in his mouth. He tried to reel away, but his chair caught on the rug and he toppled backwards. His blood felt too cold and suddenly too hot for his veins.

Impossible! IMPOSSIBLE!

Slowly, as if inspecting a bomb, he peered over the rim of the table.

The marble was there.

The black marble, the core of the amulet, sat innocently on the table top. It gently rolled back and forth and the little etchings glowed a pleasant blue.

It had promised to return to Charles.

Charles whimpered and made as if to tip the table on its end. But something stopped him. It was the marble. It called to him and whispered in his mind. It told him to join it with the amulet and everything would be alright. Charles shook his head and tried to holler, but his voice was caught in his throat. The amulet was in his hand, but he didn't remember taking it from around his neck. He attempted to fight his body as his fingers reached out and gently picked up the marble. He tried to yell and scream and cry out for it to stop, just stop he didn't want this.

But his body didn't listen. It joined the two pieces of the Amulet and everything went white.

_'Recalibrating. Recalibrating,'_ a strange, metallic voice echoed in Connor's mind. He stumbled, and realized that he didn't have a body again. Instead, he was watching the memory of Charles' first time within the amulet. The Templar was huddled against the not-floor, clenching his eyes tightly and retching as if his stomach was turning inside out.

_'Recalibrating. Recalibrating. Identifying user. Error. Human detected. Error. Recalibrating sensory input data.'_

"You're damn bloody right I'm human!" Charles spat as he tried to stand. He was pale and shaky and his eyes were wild with fear. But there was also a pride in him that would not be defeated while lying down. "What are you!?" he yelled into the White Plane. "What have you done to me!?"

There was no immediate answer from the void and for a long moment, Charles feared that he had gone completely mad. Then, a figure appeared. It was vaguely human shaped, but morphed and moved in front of his eyes.

_'Calibrating sensory output. Output selected. Program initiated. Begin simulation.'_

The figure morphed again. Skin stretched over it like a canvas and facial feature were carved into the smooth face. Hair and eyeballs and a nose formed.

Connor could feel Charles, Haytham's, and his own terror at the sight.

"Good evening, Charles," the nude figure said, taking on a perfect likeness to Haytham Kenway. The scars were in the right spots. The hair was a pleasant salt and pepper gray both on his head and nested about his genitals. The muscles were corded and looked so authentic that Connor could practically imagine comparing them to the real thing.

The figure flickered like a reflection in a river and suddenly, clothes swaddled the nude body as if they were tailored directly against his flesh. The Not-Haytham was dressed in the usual Templar Grandmaster's garb and held himself with a perfectly replicated air.

"Pardon my manners. Good evening, Charles," the thing repeated.

Charles recoiled. "What sort of devil are you!?" he gurgled in fear.

"Pardon my manners. Good evening, Charles," it repeated again.

"WHAT ARE YOU!?" Charles screamed at it and pointed an accusing finger. "Haytham is dead! You are not he!"

_'Verifying request. Request accepted. Initiating contact.'_

"Pardon my manners. Good evening, Charles. I do not have a name, but you may call me Haytham Kenway," the thing offered with a formal bow.

Charles was aghast. "No. I won't, y-you devil!"

"Your preference has been accepted and saved," the Not-Haytham said. "Allow me to begin." The thing only paused enough to begin pacing about Charles. The Templar stood on guard, never once allowing his back to fall to the eerie figure. "This program could take many forms, but my database suggests that you would be most comfortable with this one. I am not Haytham Kenway, but rather I am a conglomeration of data saved from host Haytham Kenway's mind and body. Specific synapse reactions have been preserved and recreated to render a form you would be comfortable speaking to."

"Haytham is dead…" Charles growled. He was unable to understand everything, but he knew that this thing was masquerading.

"That is false. Host Haytham Kenway is not deceased. His current vital signs are functional and strong," as if to prove a point, a heartbeat echoed through the air. The Not-Haytham paused and closed its eyes as if to listen to it.

"You're lying… You're mad, just a mad demon! What do you want with me?!"

"Your data is incorrect," the thing said. "But moving on; you are an anomaly, User Charles Lee. You are only human and you only have human blood flowing through your veins. Even so, you were able to resist my programming. You are still resisting my programming. Such a feat is statistically impossible and the event requires further analysis. Although I will not be able to fully integrate your data into my interface, I will still offer you the same that I've offered all of the others. If you grant me access to your mind, then I will grant you access to my database."

Charles narrowed his brows, wariness and understanding settling uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. This was what Haytham had seen. This was the entity that Haytham had forged a deal with in order to gain the knowledge about the artifacts. Was that why it could take on his form?

"Never!" he hissed.

The thing raised an eyebrow and tilted its head to mimic curiosity. "Why not? You fight against a new threat, do you not? I could show you how to defeat him. I could show you how to rule humanity. I could even show you Haytham Kenway, if you so choose."

The heartbeat was louder.

Charles didn't answer.

"Haytham Kenway is alive, Charles," the thing said. "But according to my probability manager, he may not be for much longer. You can save him, but only if you grant me access to your mind."

Charles shook his head. He knew when a deal was too good to be true.

Then, what seemed to be a window formed in space. It was large, almost the width of a carriage, and Connor and Charles could see through it.

It was a scene at Fort George. The building had nearly fallen to cannon fire and Haytham Kenway lay prone and bleeding against the rubble. He appeared dead.

But there was a heartbeat.

It was faint and stuttery, and it almost seemed to skip a beat every other time, but it was alive.

'_Restarting autonomous system,'_ a voice said. The heartbeat jolted, then evened out and strengthened minutely.

The wounded Haytham coughed and groaned with agony. He fought to move upright and Connor could feel the fatigue and dizziness and agony. The muscle just above the hollow where his shoulder met his neck was bloody and ragged. The trapezius muscle had been cut outwards, but no arteries had been severed. Haytham survived.

But the wounded Haytham spotted something. To Connor's horror, he realized that it was his own collapsed body. Of course. He reminded himself that this was a memory. This was back at Fort George years ago.

Panic and delirium spurred the Templar Grandmaster to his knees, giving him the strength to half crawl to the Assassin's abnormally pale body. He checked for a pulse and nearly sobbed with relief.

Connor had been alive—thankfully, gloriously, and beautifully alive.

The memory Haytham managed to finally stand. His head was swimming and his body was numb, but he needed to move. He stumbled out of the building before Assassins could find him. He left his Templar ring behind. No one paid attention to the wounded old man as he followed the outer perimeter for salvation. They were too busy either fighting or putting out the flames. Haytham was grateful that they overlooked him.

There was a haycart. It was passing by quickly, likely because the driver wanted to get out of the city before it dragged him into the battle. Haytham tumbled sloppily into the cart and allowed darkness to overtake him.

He next awoke to surprised screams and hushed whispers and bright light. Fresh air caressed his grimy, blood caked cheeks and Haytham distantly realized that he was in the Frontier. He was alive.

The window closed on the scene and Charles' jaw was agape is disbelief.

"He is alive," the Not-Haytham repeated. "I am incapable of imparting false information. I believe you humans call it 'lying'."

Charles swallowed thickly. This thing was telling the truth. Although Charles' mind fought to argue, he found that he didn't want to anymore. If Haytham was alive, then Charles might get to meet him again. He might get to lay with him and hold him and kiss him one more time.

"If you do nothing, then he will certainly die in the face of this new threat," the thing told him.

Charles swallowed again.

"I'll do it."


	25. Chapter 24

**Crimmy Comments: Ahhhh, sorry about the late post tonight! I thought that I'd have time to put this online during work today, but alas, I was too busy. But here you go! It's a short chapter.**

* * *

_Terms of use have been submitted. Verifying. Verifying. Terms accepted._

The Not-Haytham smiled broadly at Charles. The Templar was stricken, as if he immediately regretted his decision.

"Don't worry, Charles," the thing kept using Haytham's voice as it spoke almost soothingly. "Copying a host's initial data is an uncomfortable process, but since you are an incompatible host, it will not be as strenuous for you. Please enjoy your stay, and if you have any questions, I will trade information as required."

Charles opened his mouth to ask how, but he felt something inside his mind. It was as if he was trying to remember something, but could only just barely think of the word. It was on the tip of his tongue and his mind was racing and reeling, trying to catch up and bring it to light. He clenched his eyes tightly and covered his ears against the invasion. The amulet was in his head. It was doing things to his brain and he could only vaguely understand because he felt himself thinking things he otherwise wouldn't have in such a situation.

The amulet looked at his past, at his present, and formulated a future. It glanced through his favorite foods, the sort of colors he liked to wear, the softness of Spado's fur under his calloused palm, and the sensation of warm and wet puppy kisses on his cheek. It sifted through the last time he had been wounded and listed possible future wounds he would suffer—namely a bullet to his side courtesy of the Assassin. It rekindled the agony of losing Haytham at Fort George. It recalled the feeling of Haytham's skin under his lips and the tight heat constricting around his cock. He suddenly remembered Haytham sprawled beneath him, hair fanned against the pillow and hands clenching at the sheets, his eyes squeezed shut as the name of another man fell silently from the Grandmaster's lips. The amulet revived the sorrow of unrequited love.

Charles gasped and stumbled. He didn't want to see that! He didn't want to see any of that! A sob choked in his throat as he clenched his temples.

"Stop! STOP!" he screamed, both mentally and verbally.

The Not-Haytham cocked his head to the side. "Data processing cannot be halted. However, for your comfort, I will slow the program. You humans are fragile."

Charles snarled. He didn't understand this talk of programs and data processing. He didn't know what the thing meant!

But as if reading his wishes, data slowly streamed into his mind to answer his questions.

"WHAT ARE YOU!?" he mentally screamed.

The amulet answered him in images and instant knowledge. Those Who Came Before created it as a reference. It was an auto-cataloguing device that was meant to collect as much information on the world and its people as possible. It was a mobile, miniature library that required no attendant because it was self-sufficient.

But why was it approaching Charles? Why would it bother to make such a deal with a human, when it was programmed to regard humanity as nothing more than large, lumbering monkeys?

The thing answered him again. The amulet was designed to survive in order to continue passing information on through the ages.

Numbers appeared in Charles' eyesight. It was a string of foreign characters, and then some sort of code with zeros and ones. The numbers shifted and as he peered at them closer, he saw images. This was the probability manager. It couldn't tell the future like a psychic, but it could show possibilities of the future based upon numerical calculations.

The image in the numbers sharpened. A man was in some sort of Temple. He was blond square-shouldered. His teeth were too white as he bore them in a malicious grin. Harold Smith found one of the most powerful Pieces of Eden—the amulet told him that it controlled time. Harold Smith would undo existence itself in order to rule the world, but in doing so, he would also negate the amulet's existence. Thus, the amulet was helping Charles, not only out of curiosity and glitched programming, but because it was trying to save itself from Harold Smith.

But what if Smith wasn't the one who got to the relic first?

The scene flickered, and then it was Haytham undoing time and ruining the world.

It changed again, and Connor was destroying reality.

No matter the individual, the outcome was the same; the timeline crumbled upon the relic's use and the world collapsed around it. The amulet knew that if this happened, then it would cease to exist.

"Why does that concern me!?" Charles spittled.

"You strive for peace through control, do you not?" the Not-Haytham inquired. "At least, that's what your doctrine states. That's what you WANT to believe. If you do not act, not only will the world spiral out of existence, thus eliminating all chance of 'peace', but Haytham will die. You care about him, even now. Humans are irrational with their love; now that you know he's alive, you will do what you can to save him, even if the world were still to crumble at your feet. Humans are so selfish."

"You used me…" Charles growled.

"Yes, as you will use me," the Not-Haytham smiled pleasantly. "He'll die otherwise."

Charles was torn between attempting to break whatever contract he made and charging forward. This was a bad idea. Haytham had barely been able to escape this thing's devilish hold, so what chance did Charles have to resist? He didn't have anyone to save him from himself.

The amulet began showing Charles more possibilities. It showed him Haytham dead in a barn with a piece of sword sticking out of his chest. It showed him Haytham strangled to death in the midst of a burning town, by one of Harold Smith's favorite lackeys. It showed Haytham being captured by that monster, and violated again and again and again by various Templars. Charles blinked away the tears forming in his eyes with a savage snarl.

Could he save Haytham?

Another possibility arose; if Charles interfered, then the amulet would fall back into Haytham's hands. Harold Smith would use the relic to track Haytham, capture him, and violate him endlessly. Charles attempted to think of different approaches, but the end result was the same. Even though Haytham hadn't died in those possibilities, he had wished that he had. Haytham would've rather had death than suffer at the hands of that monster again.

That was unacceptable! Completely and utterly unacceptable! If he did nothing, then Haytham would die. If he did something, then Haytham would wish for death.

"How…how do I…how do I stop it?" he gasped.

The thing smiled wider.

It showed him two more possibilities.

Harold Smith was leaning over the wounded Charles, his breath rank and his sword buried in Charles' chest.

"You sorry dog. That's you, isn't it Charles? Just a dog, not the master. Never the best, always second place…" Harold rasped as the light faded in Lee's eyes.

The scene shifted again, and this time, it was Connor to plunge his hidden blade into Charles' heart. But the violence wasn't born from sickening possession and evil. It was gifted by mercy. It was out of understanding.

Was there any other way? Charles didn't want to die! He wanted to see Haytham again! He needed to save him!

A cold, surprisingly calm understanding washed over Charles like a chilly breeze in September. He knew what he had to do, even if the thought made his heart constrict and his knees buckle.

There wasn't another possibility if it meant saving Haytham. Charles needed to die. He HAD to die in order for the timeline to progress. And with the amulet, he was given the opportunity to choose his death.

He had so many preparations to make.

The Not-Haytham frowned at him. "Don't get any ideas now…" it warned.

Charles wheezed, blinking back the tremors of fear and frustration. He knew that he would die. But this way…this way, he could have a purpose. He could do more than run like a dog with his tail between his legs. He could save the world.

"You…you said that my data couldn't be properly assimilated into your memory banks…" Charles told the relic. He felt it cringe. This had not been a probability. Charles was acting outside of what COULD have been and was creating a new thread—a new world of possibility.

Everything went white.

Connor reeled and stumbled back again. They were still inside the amulet. The images on the White Plane spotted in front of his eyes and faded away. He was still standing next to Haytham, both of them still oddly incorporeal and not at the same time. The show was over. Charles wasn't going to continue.

Instead, the image of Charles reappeared in front of them, his face grim. Connor felt the sadness again, but there was something more behind it: determination.

"Because I wasn't properly integrated with the rest of the amulet's programming, I was able to act outside of it. I took information from the relic as it took information from us. Think of this as…as a virus," Charles grinned bitterly. "If I don't do this, then it won't matter what you do. The amulet will call the other relics and they will corrupt you. The amulet is an awful device and it needs to be destroyed. I can't break it, but I can do something that will at least keep it from connecting to the other relics for a while. It should buy you some time to track down Harold Smith without being detected."

A word, foreign and sad, echoed in Connor's and Haytham's minds. They both blinked and shook their heads.

"Assassin—Connor," Charles started. "If Haytham is dead and I've failed, then you know the word. Otherwise, please refrain from saying it. I'd rather hear it from Haytham's lips, even if I'm not really there anymore, even if I'm reduced to nothing but a specter."

Connor frowned, but nodded hesitantly, uncertain just what that meant. But he could feel it—the NEED for Haytham to be the one to speak.

Charles turned to where Haytham was standing. He lifted his hands, hoping to meet skin instead of air. "I'm only a program now. I can't feel you or touch you or speak to you in real time. I can only offer this. Consider it something of a last will."

"Charl—" Haytham was cut off by Charles' finger on his lips.

"Say the word. You need to save the world."

Haytham hesitated, and then nodded. How could he refuse his friend's final wish?

"Restinctio."

Charles smiled.

Connor felt like his heart was breaking and soaring at the same time.

_Program initiated. Error. Error. Error. Data corrupted. Recalculating. Error._

"Thank you," Charles leaned forward, his moustache close enough to tickle Haytham's ear, and although Connor saw his lips move, he couldn't hear the words.

_Error. Rebooting program. Error. Data corruption. Initiating system reformat. Reformatting._

Connor flinched as the edges of the White Plane began to darken. The splintered and crumbled like a mirror, like an old log, like paper writhing in fire.

_Reformatting system. Data loss imminent. Unable to restore back-up files. Reformatting._

The White Plane was falling apart all around them. The data was erasing itself and Charles was shattering along with it. The edges of his coat frayed and broke apart like glass and he began disappearing from the legs up. Haytham's eyes were wide with fear and wonder and an intense regret. But despite that, there was something like victory in Charles' eyes as he wrapped his arms around the space where Haytham was standing.

Haytham nodded, his lips thinned and bloodless.

Charles smiled and disappeared.

The White Plane was no more. The world was replaced with darkness.

_System restarting._

Charles had input a program failsafe to erase the amulet's memory. Connor understood what that meant. They could now use the amulet to track Harold Smith, but still remain undetected by his own relics. The tracking programs had been rebooted and started over from scratch. But in the process, Charles' data had also been erased.

That last shred of the Templar was gone.

* * *

Connor awoke to soft footsteps. He groaned and blinked blearily.

He was back in the cabin, lying on the floor. Molly gazed at him worriedly from a distance and Saro was determined to keep her concern to herself.

He wanted to tell them how Charles had sacrificed himself. He wanted to blurt it out and try to digest it. But he couldn't. He opened his mouth to speak, but words wouldn't pass his lips. They wouldn't understand. They hadn't seen Charles' memories or the programs. They hadn't felt the sadness and regret (and fondness and love).

"Hey, you two alright?" Molly asked, still unwilling to get too close lest she spook the men. She knew fighters when she saw them, and she definitely knew better than to poke sleeping bears.

Connor nodded dumbly and glanced to Haytham.

The elder man was slumped over the table haphazardly, but he stirred with a quiet grunt. Then, after a moment of sharp, short breath, Haytham refused to meet Connr's eyes. He took his hat off slowly, and rubbed his temples.

"You've received your message, then?" Saro asked Connor. The Assassin nodded and answered with a mushy mouth. She grunted curtly. "Good. Then I have fulfilled my husband's last request. We're leaving now."

Molly protested, but Connor wasn't paying attention.

Charles had decided to save Haytham by sacrificing his own life. He had planned it. He had plotted. He had been running from Connor and Harold Smith at the same time, and still managed to plant the journal where no one thought to look. Charles had known that Connor would find the amulet. He had known that Saro would make good on her word and she'd deliver the journal to Connor. Charles had planned it all out years in advance, and Connor had been none the wiser.

Haytham stood shakily. He was abnormally pale and his knuckles were white.

"I'm going for a walk," Haytham grunted quietly.

Connor didn't argue. He understood. Even though jealousy had burned at his heart when he saw what Haytham and Charles once had, he understood.

Haytham had lost Charles for the second time.


	26. Chapter 25

**Crimmy Comments: Guysguysgusy I'm so happy because I've waited so long to write more porn (even though it's a bit brief)**

* * *

**May 5, 1785**

It had been a few days since they left the strange cabin in the woods.

Connor and Haytham hadn't had much to say after the incident inside the amulet. Saro and Molly Brant had left in a hurry (not that Connor could blame them; Saro didn't want to be involved any more than she already was. She didn't want to risk her family's lives for something she didn't understand). After Haytham had returned from his walk, they had destroyed the journal with the amulet.

At first, Connor didn't fully understand how an amulet could somehow obliterate a journal, but he knew that it WOULD. After a brief and silent dinner, Haytham had set the journal open on the table. The lines of text and covered cartography shimmered innocently in the firelight.

Haytham had joined the marble and the amulet again. Connor had held his breath, expecting the worse. But nothing happened. They weren't whisked away to the White Plane. Connor didn't hear any mind numbing whispers or feel urges to obey the relic. He could feel the power from it as it tried to connect to a new host, but the programming was too weak to act without direction.

The amulet couldn't use them anymore.

Instead, they used the amulet. Haytham turned the ring in a specific pattern and glided it over the immaculately inked pages. The amulet glowed a bright blue, and the ink burned in its wake. Connor could've sworn that Haytham's breath hitched as the thing erased the text on the page, his fingers white and trembling just slightly.

Once the text was erased, the pages in the journal began fading. Before Connor's eyes, the parchment shriveled and blackened as if it had been caught in the fire. It writhed and burned and coiled upon itself until the entire journal was naught but ashes.

Haytham had insisted on leaving the next day and Connor was happy to agree. They left the cabin as they found it, and Connor couldn't help but feel as if he were leaving behind a grave.

A few nights later, they had stopped early in the evening to set up camp. Haytham was still so distracted, that he forgot to hide his aches and pains as stubbornly as normal. Connor winced as he was reminded time and again about his father's age. He thought of Achilles, and how the old man's health failed so steadily that Connor almost didn't notice it until it was too late. He wouldn't make that same mistake again. He wouldn't take Haytham's presence for granted anymore

Did Charles feel as if he were taken advantage of? Did he realize how close the end was before the curtains closed?

Connor shook his head and tended to the fire. He didn't want to think about Charles.

The Templar had needed to die (but he had loved Haytham so much). Charles had been wronging people and his rule as Grandmaster could've only created unrest amongst the fledgling Brotherhood (Charles was living up to Haytham's image). Charles would've kept attacking Washington (Connor wanted to hate Washington—maybe Charles had good reason to as well?).

He didn't want to think about Charles anymore, but the more he tried to push it out of his mind, the more insistent his brain was.

He didn't want to think about the memories of Haytham moaning in ecstasy beneath Charles. He didn't want to feel the undeniable love that had been so tangible that Connor could still remember the _taste_ of it. He didn't want to realize that he wasn't nearly as trusted as Charles had been. He wasn't as close to Haytham even still. Charles was only one more example of the type of man that Connor could not replace in his father's life.

The Assassin scoffed quietly at himself as he sat back on the ground. He was being stupid and childish. There was so much more on his mind than just Charles. He missed Duncan. He missed Faulkner. He missed every single Assassin and civilian that died in the Homestead attack. The weight of their loss still felt like boulders in his heart. Added to that, Connor knew that he couldn't let them down. He had to keep fighting and pursuing the Neo Templars, else the whole world would come undone. Then, their deaths would mean nothing. He had to fight. If he didn't, then who else would?

Connor glanced up at his father again. Haytham was holding the amulet ring, rubbing his fingers over the etchings absent-mindedly as he stared into the distance.

That's right. Haytham had promised that they'd stick together. They would travel together and fight together and mourn together. Although Connor didn't want anyone else to feel the sort of pain he held in his chest, he knew that if anyone understood right then, it was his father. He scooted a little closer and almost smiled because Haytham didn't notice. He was too lost in thought, and judging by the creases in his brow, the Templar's mind wasn't on pleasant topics.

"Father," Connor started, gently nudging Haytham with his elbow.

Haytham jerked, blinked owlishly, and quickly sat up straighter and cleared his throat. "What?" his voice was clipped in an attempt to keep it even.

"What is on your mind?" Connor asked hesitantly. He didn't know what they could talk about, but he just needed to hear his father's voice.

Haytham scoffed and shoved the amulet back into his pocket. "Isn't it obvious!" he snapped, but didn't embellish.

Connor shrugged. He had a good idea, but that wasn't the point. "I…I still do not understand what happened," Connor admitted quietly. "Inside the amulet…with Lee… I…I do not understand."

Haytham almost looked cross again, but the anger didn't quite reach his eyes. "There's nothing to understand, Boy. The amulet tried to use me decades ago to find the other Pieces of Eden, which would've surely led to everyone's demise. It almost worked, if not for Charles. And even now, we have a chance at saving this world because of him. Remember when I told you that Smith could feel our location when we activate the amulet? Well, he can't anymore. The amulet's…'programming', I believe it's called, has been rewritten. He can't track us, but we can still track him. That's what happened. That's what Charles did and what that entire incident inside the amulet was about."

"But Harold Smith is still seeking the Piece of Eden that controls time. We have destroyed the only map and now we have cut off his method of tracking us through the relics. If he is still so desperate, then he will attack us directly from now on," Connor concluded.

Haytham nodded. But even though it sounded simpler, Connor figured that Smith still had a veritable army at his disposal. How long had the Neo Templars been forming? Months? Years? Decades? And all of it right beneath Haytham's nose. He wanted to be angry about it, but there wasn't room in his heart for rage at the moment.

"But that is not what I do not understand, father," Connor glared at the fire bitterly. "I meant…with Lee… he loved you. I felt it. He loved you…I do not understand how you two… why you were not…" Connor couldn't find the words he was trying to say without grimacing.

Haytham barked a short, harsh laugh. "We weren't lovers, Boy!" his lips were bitter and resentful and his eyes flashed like steel. "Maybe we could've been, but we weren't. It was just sex. I knew that Charles had…feelings for me, but they weren't appropriate. He had no reason to…he shouldn't have felt that way. We're both men. He was my subordinate. It just…wasn't… I didn't know that he felt…so strongly."

Even though Haytham's words sounded like nothing but excuses, Connor couldn't help but feel burned. Was that how Haytham thought of him as well? Was their former relationship really just for the sex? Connor knew better than to think that there was actually anything behind it. He should've known better, on both of their parts. They were both men. They were father and son. They were Templar and Assassin. Anything between them would just have to be for sex, right?

Connor bit his tongue to keep from arguing aloud.

"Perhaps…" Haytham started again, weariness dragging his shoulders down. "Perhaps I was mistaken… I didn't recognize Charles' affection for what it was. Perhaps…I was a fool."

A silence passed between them for a time. Then Connor asked, against his better judgment, "What did Lee tell you when…at the end?"

Haytham snorted derisively. "He imparted a great deal of _none of your business,_ Boy!"

Connor fought the urge to sneer and roll his eyes. Haytham was understandably defensive, but it didn't make him any easier to handle. But maybe the Templar understood that his son wasn't expressly the source of his ire. Haytham sighed and rubbed his nosebridge.

"That's not what I meant," he tried. "I meant…It's difficult. Why should I tell you his final words? I want to blame you for his death. You ran him through with your blasted hidden blade. I witnessed it while we were inside the amulet. You killed Charles." Haytham sat back and craned his neck at the stars. "But Charles _chose_ you to kill him. He wanted you to end his mortal life over that bastard, Smith. Would you have succeeded otherwise?"

"Lee had to die," Connor found his mouth suddenly dry as he tried to justify his actions. "I..I want to apologize, but it would be insincere."

"…I know," Haytham seemed to fight back another scoff. "But he still made a predetermined choice to be killed by your blade. It wasn't quite an act of suicide but rather…a sacrifice. How can I blame you for that?"

Connor wasn't expecting such a response. He felt his hackles lower in astonishment, but he was still too afraid of what that might mean (or rather, what it wouldn't mean). He tried to swallow. If Haytham noticed his discomfort, the Templar still said nothing about it.

"Do you mourn for him, even though you killed him?" Haytham asked.

Connor frowned and nodded slowly. "I suppose…in a manner, I do. I wish that…that we had been able to communicate the larger threat. I could have helped him fight against Harold Smith. I could have tried to form a real alliance between Assassins and Templars. So while I mourn the loss of a man who was…selfless enough to sacrifice himself, I grieve for the lost chances even more."

"You're still mourning for your Assassins and the Homesteaders too, aren't you?"

Connor nodded solemnly. "Aren't you?"

Haytham didn't answer. The Assassin almost worried that he had ruined the moment by being too direct. He was enjoying this abnormally talkative Haytham, even if the man wasn't as open about the situation as Connor hoped he could be. It was a nice change. If only it hadn't occurred because of tragedy. After some time, Haytham shifted and crossed his arms over his chest.

"You've read my journals," Haytham started. "For the first few years after Reginald Birch…oversaw my training, I was terrified to write very often. I thought that he might find my journals and throw me out for having opinions that didn't coincide with his own. As such, you don't know where I learned to climb like an Assassin, do you?"

Connor shook his head to the seemingly rhetorical question. He didn't know where Haytham was going with such a story, but he was content to just listen.

"I believe it was in…1736? Or maybe 1737 or so. We were still traveling from country to country to—unbeknownst to me—evade the Assassins. Reginald had told me a little bit about them and how they climbed on rooftops to pounce their prey. I asked him why Templars didn't do that as well in order to best the Assassins at their own game. He had said that only thieves learned such a technique and scoffed it aside.

But I was restless with my training and studies, as any young boy is. So during the late afternoons, when Reginald was too busy with his own paperwork to bother with me, I would venture into the city under the pretense of familiarizing myself with the terrain. But really, I was trying to teach myself to scale the buildings like I had seen a few thieves do," Haytham laughed lightly at the memory. "I must have looked a fool, what with my nice white stockings and frilled sleeves getting ripped and my shoes falling off constantly. And then a boy—older than I had been, but not quite a man—approached me. I thought that he was going to laugh or, at worst, rob me. Reginald did say that thieves roamed the rooftops like pigeons.

"But instead, the boy taught me how to climb. He even provided a spare set of pants and boots—all threadbare and well worn—just so that I wouldn't ruin my good clothes. I had still been too young and far too short to make the jumps that he could, but I remember feeling that I had done a splendid job. I felt like I could have leaped across a canyon. But when the boy asked for my name, I had lied. I told him that I was called Edward, and he told me that his name was John.

Even so, for the next two weeks, I snuck out into the city at least once, sometimes twice, a day to perfect my climbing. I only learned the basics, but that boy set me on the path to learning an invaluable skill for life. I daresay that he was the first friend that I ever made." Haytham sighed almost contently. He readjusted himself a little, his back popping.

"But on my last day in the city, I learned that he was not entirely truthful either. We had climbed to the top of an old cathedral and the sun was setting. I was eager to return to Reginald lest he realized my absence, but I was reluctant to leave. I didn't want to lose the only friend I had ever made, but what could I do? I had to move on. So I told him that I was departing the next morning and, apparently frantic to make some sort of connection to a friend, he told me that 'John' wasn't his name. His name was Miko."

Haytham chuckled quietly, despite himself. "His name was Miko," he repeated. "We had both lied about our identities. Feeling more than a little ashamed, I told him my true name as well. I was too naïve to understand why his eyes went as wide as saucers or why he tried to convince me so desperately to stay in the city. He must have known. He must have been part of the Assassin team that was tracking Reginald.

But he let me go. And I didn't realize until decades later, after I took the amulet from his neck, that I had killed the first friend I ever made."

Connor frowned. He didn't understand why Haytham was telling him such a strange and personal story. Then, it dawned on him. "…Miko… That was the name of Duncan Little's uncle—the one that you murdered in the Royal Opera House."

"The very one," Haytham nodded bitterly. "And I can't help but wonder how things might've been different had I listened to him and stayed behind. Or perhaps if I had recognized him when I kidnapped that one boy, that Lucio, maybe we could've struck some sort of alliance. Maybe I didn't have to kill him…

"But even so, his blood is on my hands. Nothing will change that. I didn't know that Miko had a nephew in the Colonies, though. Had I known…well, I suppose nothing would be any different now. Maybe Duncan Little would still be dead."

"What is your point, father?" Connor tried to ask as patiently as possible. He still blamed Haytham's carelessness for Duncan's death, but at the same time… now Connor also understood the power that the relics could hold over a person. He felt the amulet's pull on his own mind. Was that how Haytham felt with the Dioscuri relics? Had they been calling to him like a siren song? Would Connor have been able to resist if their positions were swapped?

Haytham sighed quietly and searched his hands for a moment. "Duncan Little didn't know me. I don't know if he was aware that his uncle and I could've been friends once upon a time or not. But he knew that I murdered Miko. He knew WHAT I was, even if he wasn't aware of WHOM I was. And yet…" Haytham clenched his hands into fists. "Yet Little forgave me. Even after all I have done, after all of the lives I've stolen and the blood I've spilled and the lands I've burned…even after killing his own kin with nary an excuse, Duncan forgave me."

Haytham laughed harshly, sadly. "Templar or Assassin: this line of work that we're in is largely thankless. We don't kill so that people bow before our feet. We don't anticipate gratitude or salvation. We don't expect forgiveness. And frankly, I could say that we don't deserve it. But Duncan did something that no one has ever done before—he forgave me. And under what pretense? He did it because he believed that every person had a god-given right to forgiveness, regardless of their sin. While I don't believe in his god, I can't help but…I…" he frowned. "Of course I mourn—in my own way—for the civilians who died in the Homestead attack. They were innocent. But I suppose outside of them, I grieve for Duncan Little's loss as well. He could have been…he _was_ a great man, greater than most."

Haytham sighed again, trying to find the right words. "I want to believe that people deserve second chances. That's what Charles… It's one of the things that he mentioned before he…disappeared."

Connor felt his heart leap into his throat. His voice was choked and he fought to swallow the emotions back down. He knew that he would never be forgiven for his crimes. He had killed so many people and made so many mistakes… but the idea of forgiveness made his heart pound. It made his fingers shake and his breath catch in his lungs. He understood now just how important Duncan's words had become.

Haytham shifted again, fighting back the ghost of a smile twitching on his lip. "Last year, do you remember when we were arguing in an inn?"

Connor snorted half-heartedly. "We argued in many inns, father."

Haytham chuckled. "True, but there was something about that particular argument. You had told me that there must be something more in our world than hatred and animosity and Assassins and Templars. And now I believe that I have your answer."

Connor looked to him expectantly.

"There is forgiveness. There is redemption."

Connor was speechless.

Haytham didn't seem to expect an answer. They sat side by side before the fire, watching the embers dance in the air as the moon ducked behind clouds in the sky. Haytham pulled his cloak around his shoulders. Winter was around the corner.

"Charles knew about…us. The amulet showed him," Haytham said with some difficulty. Connor's head snapped to him, wide-eyed and aghast. But the Templar didn't pay any attention. "He and I weren't…exclusive, but it still hurt him to know that I was fucking you behind his back. But even despite the pain, and even though he doesn't support incest, he still wished me happiness—even if it's attained through you. Of all people and all situations, _he_ asked me to give _you_ another chance."

Connor frowned. "What do you…what do you mean?" he asked skeptically, half expecting his words to be too good to be true.

"Tch," Haytham said. "It means that, even though your…actions back in January were deplorable to say the least, I want to _try_ to forgive you. I don't know if I can yet or not but…but I'll try. I'll give you another chance. That is…" Haytham shrugged a little and wrapped his cloak tighter around himself. He didn't dare look at his son. "…if you're still willing to attempt whatever…whatever _we_ have." He made a vague hand gesture between them.

Connor would've pinched himself to check if he was dreaming had he thought about it. As it was, he could only stare slack-jawed at his father.

"But…I am not Holden…and I am not Charles," Connor's voice was far too quiet and strangled.

"I didn't ask you to be."

"We…agreed that we would try to be family…"

"Fine! If that's what you want instead, then we can go that route!" Haytham quickly interjected. Incest was still wrong, whether or not it was condoned and encouraged by a dead man. If Connor didn't want it, then Haytham wouldn't push it.

Instead, Connor scooted closer, hesitated, and then leaned his shoulder against his father's. "I would like to try again, Haytham."

One of the logs cracked in the fire.

"…I thought that you didn't like to be touched."

Connor smiled and dared to nuzzle against the crook of Haytham's neck. He savored the rich musk, shivering with relief and joy. Spirits above, he had craved his father's scent for so long, but he'd been in no position to indulge. Now, after the stiffness had drained from his shoulders and his chest felt light and his stomach was fluttery, he felt like he could finally find some comfort from his father. All of the horrors of the past month still haunted him, but he felt like he could bear it again.

"I do not like to be touched by anyone but you," Connor admitted quietly.

Haytham's pulse seemed to skip a beat, but he maintained his composure and shifted to wrap his cloak around Connor as well. Perhaps it was fatigue or perhaps he was still oddly emotional, but Connor didn't mind. He nestled into the warmth and wrapped his arm around his father's waist. To his surprise, Haytham didn't push him away.

Connor touched tentatively along Haytham's side and back, exploring the shape of the other man's body and lingering on the scars he had memorized. Warmth seeped through his father's coat and thawed Connor's hesitant, fearful fingertips.

Haytham petted Connor's back in response, drawing out each thread of tension as if he were milking poison from a wound. The corded muscle in Connor's back softened and he relaxed against his father, his eyelashes tickling Haytham's stubbled jaw.

They weren't perfect. They hadn't fixed anything yet, but there was hope. Maybe Haytham could learn to forgive Connor for hurting him. Maybe they could finally learn to forgive themselves for loving each other so inappropriately.

* * *

Over the next few days, Connor and Haytham touched each other frequently. There wasn't anything sexual about most of their explorations, but it was so…different. They didn't tear off each other's clothes upon a whim (though it was RATHER tempting), but rather they were content just _touching_ as if they had never really _felt_ the other before. Connor felt a heady rush every time his father's calloused fingers grazed the back of his neck, or the way he might brush against Connor as he walked by. Even when they were setting up another campsite, they allowed themselves the obscene pleasure of simple, casual touches.

Of course, the sexual tension was still there and thrumming like an undercurrent strong enough to steal away a continent, but both men seemed to draw it out and savor it like a fine wine. Connor delighted in making Haytham shiver with a well-timed whisper in his ear. The fact that his father still couldn't understand Mohawk was downright intoxicating. But Haytham always got him back with a sly smirk and languid, teasingly casual strokes to his hip or chest or back or sometimes, even his buttocks. Finally, as they both turned in for the night, Haytham caught Connor's attention with a meaningful glance and a saucy smirk. Connor's cheeks immediately flared a deep pink. He watched, dumbfounded, as Haytham propped himself against his bedroll and lazily removed his boots and coat.

"Sit over there," Haytham ordered huskily as he pointed to Connor's own bedroll. "Hands to yourself."

Connor swallowed hard and reluctantly obeyed. He kept his dark eyes riveted on his father as Haytham slowly unbuttoned his waistcoat and teased open the hem of his breeches.

"Connor…" he groaned softly.

The Assassin decided that he liked that sound. His dick's interest was already piqued and he teasingly rubbed the growing bulge in his trousers. Connor licked his lips and wished that he had more light to see his father. He could use his Eagle Vision, but that wasn't the same. He wanted to see every wrinkle in Haytham's clothes and witness every bead of sweat to roll down his jaw. Connor didn't want to miss a second.

Haytham smirked and pulled out his cock. It was already half-hard and Connor couldn't help but wonder how long Haytham had been thinking about this sort of thing.

"Touch yourself," Haytham ordered.

Connor didn't waste a moment. He picked open the placket of his own breeches, freeing his mounting erection with a sigh of relief. "Fath—" Connor caught himself and swallowed. "Haytham…"

Haytham chuckled. "Good boy…" he praised, much to the Assassin's embarrassment. Connor watched as Haytham spit in his hand and resumed stroking his cock. He played with the head of it, making the tip shimmer in the dim light.

"God, Connor…" he gasped lightly, bucking his hips into his hand as he blearily watched his son jack off as well. "I've craved your hands on my cock," Haytham husked. "Your callouses and the way your jerk me off as desperately as I crave it. I've fantasized about your lips around me. I've wanted to just tackle you down, pin you in the dirt, and make you take my dick in your mouth. I've wanted to fuck those pretty lips of yours until they're swollen and tender and you're gasping for air… And your arse…dear god your arse," Haytham bit his lip as he bucked harder into his hand. He clenched his eyes for just a second before locking them with Connor's again.

Connor was already rock hard and his erection was weeping. He pulled back his foreskin, hissing between his teeth, and played with the slit of his cock as he watched his father.

"I've missed your arse, Connor. I've missed your tight hole and the way you clench around me when you keen. I've craved the heat as you whine to completion and rut against me. I've wanted my balls slapping against your thighs, and I've wanted to fuck you until you're hoarse."

Connor moaned and stroked himself faster, his eyes darting between his father's wet cock and the way his moist lips moved in the darkness. He could smell the rush of hormones and the thick scent of man. The sound of his father's slick hand pistoning and squelching lewdly around his erection was pure music.

"I want to mark you, Connor," Haytham all but growled. "I want to mark you time and again. Whenever you pull up your hood to hide from the world, I want to know that those are MY hickies adorning your neck. I want you to ride me with abandon, I want your hair to come out of that damned ponytail and I want you to _lose_ yourself on me. I want to be inside of you when you come. I want my tongue down your throat as you cry out in completion. I want to come inside you, and when I pull out, I want to watch your hole twitch and spasm as my seed drips down your thighs."

"F-f-!" Connor bit his lip hard, squinting to keep from closing his eyes against the pleasure. "Haytham!" he panted. "Yes! I want…Ah! I need that!"

Haytham jerked himself mercilessly, but the exertion already had him at his peak. "Come here," he all but snarled.

Connor whined as he released his cock, but he obediently crawled to his father and straddled his thighs.

Haytham snatched the back of Connor's head and pulled him into a fierce kiss. Connor parted his moist lips, eagerly inviting the Templar's tongue to plunder his mouth. He gasped as Haytham gripped his cock firmly and stroked it mercilessly.

"Touch me," Haytham growled between wet, open-mouthed kisses. Connor blindly reached for his father's cock and pulled at it in time.

"After—After I fuck you," Haytham continued, breathless between kisses and lust, "I want to finger you open. I'll pry that tight hole of yours apart to keep it from constricting. I'll keep spreading your walls until you're pliable and soft. And then, then as soon as I'm hard for the second time, I'll fuck you again. You'll be open and wet and ready, begging for more as I slam into your body, won't you?"

"Y-yes! Haytham, hnnng yes!" Connor whined. He wanted it all now, but more than anything, he wanted release. His lower belly was on fire and his balls were tightening with each thrust.

"F-fath-!" Haytham cut Connor off again with another brutal kiss hard enough to make their teeth clack together.

Connor's back tensed and his trembled from toe to tongue as he came with a strangled cry. Warmth spurted across their bellies and hands and Connor distantly realized that Haytham was orgasming, too. His dick was pulsing against his palm and he could feel his father's free hand painfully tight in his hair.

Shuddering and shaking, Connor reluctantly pulled away from the kiss and settled back on his heels. His face was flushed and his tummy was a right mess. Haytham chuckled and grasped Connor's hands before he could wipe the cum on the bedroll.

With eyes wide, Connor watched as Haytham sucked both of their hands clean. If the Templar minded the taste of semen, he didn't show it this time as he eagerly cleaned up the mess.

"How was…how was that?" Haytham asked, breathless, and licked his lips.

If Connor had the ability to be hard again, right that second, he would've had a record-breaking erection. As it was, he settled for surging forward and capturing his father's lips in another delicious kiss. Haytham chuckled and indulged him.

"You don't know how long I've waited for something like that…" Haytham admitted with a smirk.

Connor snorted quietly, but didn't argue that he'd probably been waiting just as long. "Thank you, Haytham," he said instead. "I missed you."


End file.
